


Darkness Within

by silvereyedbitch



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 64,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvereyedbitch/pseuds/silvereyedbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins as an alternate ending to the CFT with a D&G relationship as the initial goal, but then it delves into Tarrant's past. The first chapter deals mainly with the alternate ending, and the subsequent chapters then turn more to developing a background for our favorite character. This fic is my fanciful attempt to explore the growth of such an intriguing character through a recreation of his past. This is done mostly through use of dreams and such. It also includes interludes of D&G as well, when Damien is not dreaming. I hope it's not too poorly written, but if you're like me, you'll read just about anything with these characters in it!  ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Even That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own CFT.  
> A/N: This fic begins as an alternate ending whose initial goal is the ever-popular D&G relationship, but it diverges thereafter into an examination of the events of Tarrant’s past that have facilitated his development into such an intriguing fantasy character. I am definitely NOT a professional writer, so I apologize for bad grammar, typos, and whatnot. I also apologize if anything happens like one second someone’s standing and then later it says they stand up. LOL!  
> Setting: After Crown of Shadows’ horrid ending wherein Tarrant was inexplicably killed by that twit Andrys. Let’s say things had proceeded as the book had written, with the exception of the meeting of Damien and the young man at Black Ridge Pass. Personally, I believe the young man Damien met was the Iezu child created of Tarrant’s “Hunter” essence, and was not to be believed as being the man himself reincarnated at all. But, to save the issue from deliberation and possible contamination, let’s just erase that single part of the end of the trilogy shall we? And now, we shall proceed with how it would continue after the Patriarch’s death, Tarrant’s murder, and Erna being forever changed by both of these sacrifices.

**Not Even That**

“It has no power of its own, if that’s the question. Nor would it fade with time. Only death can sever that kind of link---and sometimes not even that.” –Gerald Tarrant, Black Sun Rising.

            Brooding. Ruminating. Damien Vryce delved deep within the treacherous depths of his soul as he recalled those very words, flowing from lips as smooth and cold as freshly fallen snow. He shivered at the recollection, but not quite in fear…something else? Something deeper and more subtle than conscious thought would allow…  He had become somewhat obsessed with the adept since their last night at the keep. Every other thought seemed to consist of some remnant of a time now dead and gone. _How does one get over this kind of event? This kind of loss?_ he asked himself repeatedly. Finding that he held a deep rooted hope for the Hunter’s salvation just as that very same personage had been violently taken from him had broken things inside of himself he had previously been unaware of. He had given it a name: Friendship. Twisted and dark, yes, but true friendship all the same. At least, that was the best moniker he could come up with at this time. And because of this friendship, he was plagued, nay, _haunted_ by the events that had played out in the keep on that nightmarish day.

            Conversations held with Tarrant in the depths of night came unbidden during Damien’s daylight hours. He pondered their words to each other as a scholar studies ancient poetry. Those subtle implications sprinkled with sharp sarcasm became hour-long recollections for him. Quirks of the deceased’s character bled into his everyday life. Did the grocer position his fingers just so? Was that shadow darker than the others? The man in the bookstore, did he hold Damien’s gaze with a penetrating and familiar stare, or was it just the lighting? He found himself constantly analyzing the crowds, looking for someone who could not possibly be there. And yet it seemed…it seemed… It was as though you could feel him there, just at the edges of visual perception. One slight turn of the head or flick of the eyes, and he was gone. A voice, heard just beyond the level of comprehension, but smooth and familiar in its cadence, would reach him every now and then through the clamor of the market crowds. And with startling clarity, for but a moment, he was in another time. Another place.

            _Have I truly gone insane?_ he asked himself that night as he lay down. The apartment was silent around him, moonlight filtering mist-like through the window. Today, the feeling had been with him almost every minute. It wasn’t ever quite this afflicting before, this comprehensive. But even so, for the day’s entirety he had felt the presence of another thrumming through his soul. Soft as the last breath of life, yet as poignant as its first, he _knew_ that presence. And it resonated throughout his being, leaving sparkling trails of…happiness?...something else??…until he remembered the causative agent of these feelings, and that it was now beyond all human contact. And so he lay there in his austere bedding that night, attempting once more the mental exercises of his order, so that he might gain some measure of peace.

            The serenity of the repetitions lasted but minutes before his thoughts began to intrude once more. _What about my dreams? Are they getting worse? More often? Or do I just notice them more now that I am aware of them?_ he thought to himself. Once or twice a week had been the start of it, commencing just days after Tarrant’s death. Most were comprised of ambiguous scenes involving snatches of conversations previously held with the Hunter. However, of late, the conversations and actions were not simply memories repeating themselves, but new dialogs altogether. And the topics were many and varied, leaving him lost as to the meanings behind them. How will the church fare in this new world of fae that no longer responds to mankind? Will he rejoin his order and seek absolution through his work? What does he think of a particular genetic trait that had been implemented in the Forest’s equine stock so many generations ago?

            So unassuming, so vague, and so nonthreatening were these dreams that Damien had begun to ignore them altogether. He rationalized them as his mind’s way of coping with the death of such an important figure in his life. His subconscious was holding on to the other man’s memory in an effort to deny his death. But the last few nights had strayed from the norm.  Not vastly, no. And at first, he didn’t pay any attention to the differences. They were subtle, so subtle…like _him_.

Mountainside, midnight, with a hint of a brisk wind. They were examining a rock formation that didn’t fit the area’s geological history. Hands upon the source of their intrigue, pointing out flaws and delineations to each other. And then, just as the Hunter had turned to face the stars, the adept’s fingers brushed across Damien’s. Light as an angel’s wings and cool as an autumn breeze. There and gone. So unaccustomed to physical contact of any kind from the other man, Damien’s body reacted strangely. A kind of thrill ran through his arm and into his chest, not unlike the adrenaline felt when one is suddenly spooked. And that was all…  At least, for _that_ dream. In another, they had just finished speaking of the new demarcation of the church’s boundaries in the north. Each stood facing the other, silence stretching out between them. And it seemed to the priest that Tarrant held his gaze somewhat longer than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling really, more like…unknown. Uncharted. In life, or unlife as it were, the adept had rarely done things of this nature, and so he had no reference point to work from. But then those silver eyes flicked out to the horizon, and the moment was gone. Was it ever there to begin with?  

            So many tiny things. Alone, they were not even noticeable. Together, they had begun to convince Damien of his own growing insanity. Last night’s dream was stranger still. He and Tarrant were walking through a daylight version of the Forest. Sunlight filtered down through the branches above them, lending a glow like that of early spring. They came to a halt before a small stream and observed its course for a while. The sound of the Forest and the burbling water lulled Damien into a half-trance of relaxation. And so he didn’t realize until the last second that Tarrant was suddenly closer to him than before. Much closer. Whereas they had been observing the waters together from a few feet apart, now they were standing where their shoulders touched lightly. Cold threaded its way through the priest’s arm as it remained in contact with the Hunter’s own.

            And into the springtime beauty, the Hunter spoke, not looking at him at first, “I have to know. Do you see?” Then the adept turned his body and his face to Vryce, so close. “I will know first,” he whispered.  And the long and delicate fingers reached up towards Damien’s face, stopping once they found his cheek. They rested there for seconds before Damien had found himself awake and staring at the ceiling, his face still tingling from the chill of the Hunter’s hand.  

            He lay awake in bed this night, wondering at the oddity. _What is it he wanted to know?_ _And why am I dreaming this stuff?_ And then he thought of the Hunter’s touch. It made him feel strange, different. Not in a bad way exactly, just an unknown reaction yet to be categorized. But dwelling on Tarrant for any length of time always ended in one way. And as the tears began to fall and the guilt settled in, Damien cursed his subconscious mind for torturing him in this manner. It wasn’t enough that the man had been practically murdered in his proximity. No. His mind just couldn’t let go and allow him the peace of numbness that comes with time and separation.   _And why am I even this upset anyway? The man was a murderer for centuries. He may have become something of a friend to **me** in the end, but that doesn’t wipe clean the slate of blood he accrued._ But even so, the visage of Gerald Tarrant, calm, collected, cold…beautiful? _Eh?_ he thought as he drifted back off, tears leaving glittering paths on his tanned skin.

            Nighttime. Top of the old keep. Damien walked out onto the observatory, standing under the night sky as he had long ago when he first met the Hunter and knew him for what he was. Or thought he did anyway. And there he was now. Tall form silhouetted against the stars, leaning onto the rim of the walkway. Damien approached, but he found suddenly that he was watching from a distance and had no control over his actions. And so the priest watched as Tarrant turned when he reached him, the soft starlight giving an angelic silvery glow to the length of him. And as Damien looked on, he saw his own hand reach out and slide around Tarrant’s waist. Gerald mimicked the gesture, and then, slowly, gracefully, they began dancing under the stars to an unheard melody. _Waltzing_. The word floated through Damien’s mind as he remembered an old Earth-tradition dance that had still held some popularity during Gerald’s human lifetime. _What is going on here?_ he thought as the strange scene unfolded, but kept watching intently. You could almost feel the music that went unheard, sliding around and over the scene. And then the pair stopped, suddenly, and Gerald whirled to face where Damien’s incorporeal form observed. He seemed to be studying something, perhaps the priest’s reaction? And then a blackness fell down over Damien, and he awoke the next morning with a headache and vague recollections of dancing with the most feared being on Erna.

            He went through his day more and more convinced that something was actually happening to him, not just a simple case of insanity and grief. After much concentration, and a few odd looks in a coffee shop, he had pinpointed the feeling of the other’s presence. It was the bond. It was still _there_. And though he couldn’t feel the other man the way he used to, the fact that it was present and intact served as salve for his frayed nerves. _Perhaps **that** is the cause of all this weirdness? He died, but the bond did not, and it is giving me echoes of him through my dreams._   This seemed to make a certain logical sense to him, and so he decided on attempting to take more control of his dreams this time around. He meandered through the remainder of the day with this new purpose in mind, plotting his night.

Before bed, he prepared himself mentally to enter his dreamworld more fully in control so as not to be led around by a fae-created bond this night. He entered his dreams softly and with some amount of awareness. He had no control over the environment, but at least he could control his own actions and understood that he was truly dreaming. This dreamscape apparently took place on the Golden Glory when they were bound across the ocean. It was twilight, and he found the Hunter at the rear of the ship, observing the waves spreading out from the wake of the great vessel. The adept turned and stared for a moment before giving one of his half-smiles and turning away again. A soft voice carried to Damien’s ears, “Bravo, priest. I see there’ll be no more sneaking into your hours of slumber.” Damien stood silently for a few moments and then closed the distance he was from Tarrant and glared at him, an angry retort dying upon his lips as he drew up beside the man.

            Tarrant stood stock-still, leaning upon the railing and staring unseeing into the waves. And it wasn’t the expression on the adept’s face that had halted Damien’s speech. It was something deeper, visceral. _Pain_ was palpable here. Fear, hurt, longing, and a deep and abiding pain washed over the priest. And though he couldn’t be certain, he believed them to belong to the man at the railing. This was certainly different! Maybe he really _was_ going insane? He fumbled for words, and managed only a scanty, “Why?” before clamming up completely. And he watched in silence as the Hunter straightened, looking first the other way and breathing deeply. When the adept turned to face him, his expression was difficult to read. Not because of a lack of visual clarity or anything else mundane, but because Damien had never seen its like on the other man’s face before. He couldn’t place it, no matter how he tried.

            “To know, Vryce,” was all he said. The wind picked up a bit and blew around and between them. “Know what?” Damien queried, growing impatient with this specter. Tarrant again looked toward the sea before answering, the wind and waves growing ever more restless. A light rain began to fall, softly collapsing against the wooden deck. Yet even though the waves were crashing around them, the ship sat as though becalmed. “You,” Tarrant finally responded. Damien was now thoroughly confused and not just a little angry. These were the kind of cryptic responses that had plagued him even when the adept had been alive. _Me?_ _What about me? How I feel? That’s it. I’ve had it,_ Damien thought to himself before saying, “Me? You wanna know about me? Alright then. I feel horrible, man. You _died_ , and I _lived_ , and it should have been both of us. _Together_. I don’t know how he got in there, but that doesn’t matter now. You were so close to me, and yet I left you there. I still don’t even know why.” Damien began to feel something unknot inside himself. His anger was melting before other emotions. And those held within were bursting forth, and the pain of them was overwhelming. It flowed out around his limbs, making them feel leaden. “And I’m so sorry. There’s no way to change anything now, though, is there? And so I’ll take this pain with me forever. I failed you. I failed you in the worst way.” He hit his knees on the deck, and the storm without grew more violent by the minute. Eyes closed, he choked out a feeble, “I failed you. I’m so sorry.” And then, barely whispered, “And I miss you, you bastard.”

            Damien awoke kneeling on his bed, his pillow soaked from his tears. The bond within him was throbbing with an overpowering sense of emotional turmoil. That was it. He had to get out of here. Glancing at the window, he noted that it was only just before dawn. Plenty of time then. Yes, that was it. Action was needed here. Quickly dressing and grabbing his pack, he threw clothing and a few other essentials inside and was on his way shortly thereafter, which seemed to calm the throbbing somewhat. He had no destination in mind originally, but as he walked, he soon discovered that his heading would return him to the scene of the very font of his troubles. He stopped dead in the street. While he stood unmoving, the throbbing of the bond returned full-force. Tentatively, he took a step towards the Forest…and it died down again. Early morning traffic and pedestrians continued to flow around him as he stood there. “Huh,” he snorted, and resumed traveling in that direction.

            Damien had been staying at the town in closest proximity of the Forest since the Hunter’s death. Partly, it was because he just couldn’t summon enough effort to actually care anymore, but now he was beginning to suspect it was something else entirely that had kept him from moving on.  A feeling was building in his gut, one that he didn’t fully appreciate yet, but it made him feel an urgency to his movements. And so he made excellent time. About half a day later, when he reached the edge of the Forest, which was still mostly alive thanks to a fire-bred resistance instilled in the plant life, the feeling doubled him over for a second. Someone was waiting for him. Or perhaps some _thing_? That was the feeling he was experiencing. The feeling that someone was awaiting his arrival. Or that something was left undone. It was as if he had been apart from a lover for too long and was rushing back to her arms. But he wasn’t. There was no one there. Right?

            He began to jog as he entered the leafy greenery. It was not near as sinister in appearance as it had once been during the Hunter’s reign, but there still clung to it a certain malicious feel. The feeling of being observed. The shadows seeming darker than they had a right to and all that. But Damien had eyes for one purpose only. Get to the keep. Find the source of this pull on his bond. End his insanity. And so he ran.

            It took almost another half day again of this. But Damien was a hardened warrior, and his endurance running was still up to snuff despite the days spent languishing in that apartment. He reached the courtyard of the ancient keep as the sun was setting, but the Core was still fully up. He needed time to breathe now, to think. He sat at a fountain for a time, drinking his fill and dousing his face and neck with the cool water. And when he recovered his breath, he noted that the throbbing had dulled to a slow ache now. Standing slowly and performing a routine of stretches, he braced himself for what he might find inside the keep. And then he cursed himself for a fool for not having brought along any weaponry other than his boot knife. Excellent. Proceeding with extra caution now, he went to the huge wooden doors and forced one open, letting the dying light of evening filter into the heavy gloom held within.

            Once inside, there was little illumination to be had. However, as Damien’s eyes adjusted to the enshrouding darkness, he was struck by how circular his life had ended up. Here he was, yet again approaching the Hunter, but with trepidation of a different sort. So many emotions back then. Anger. He remembered that, too. He had come here full of it. Righteous wrath kept him going back then. Senzei had been injured, and Ciani was here somewhere as a prisoner, or worse. And there had sat the Prince of Jehanna, Gerald Tarrant. Founder and almost-destroyer of his faith. Black and white had been so easily determined then. Him: good. Tarrant: bad. End of story. Where had it changed? And when? He wondered this over and over as he took in the melancholy scene of the Hunter’s keep in such disrepair. _Tarrant would never have suffered this_ , he thought to himself.

            Just out of a slight morbid curiosity, he headed for the inner chapel. Upon entering it, all hope died within him. Surely if the person he wanted most in the world to be here was actually present, this would be the one place not affected by the ravages of the soldiers. And yet, the few small pews were broken and toppled. The alter turned on its side. Even the beautiful depiction of Earth had been desecrated and ruined. It hurt something deep inside him to see these things, and he had yet to really recognize why. After all, these were just things. _But they were **his** things. Important to **him** , _he thought _._ And therefore, they held some intrinsic meaning to Damien, lending to him a sadness that was building in each of his steps. He left the chapel with bright eyes and began a journey towards the lower levels with a heavy heart.

            Along the way, he found a lamp with a goodly supply of oil remaining in it. He also pulled down a decorative sword from the walls. Hey, it might be sparkly, but it had a better reach than the dagger. He found the entrance to the cellars and laboratory shortly thereafter. The darkened door facing him filled him with such a sense of impending dread that he had to sit down for a while before going on. He ate some trail biscuits as he rested and attempted to prepare himself for what might lie beyond the door to his side. A headless corpse half-rotted away flashed before his mind’s eye. He almost retched on his food just then. No, he wouldn’t think of that. And even if it were so, he could still bury his friend. He owed him that much at least. He owed him that. And so much more…

            And with that last thought, Damien began to cry. It wasn’t the soft weeping of someone with sad reminiscences. It was the hard, ugly sobbing of someone who has lost something dear to them that they only now are beginning to understand. The sobs wracked and shook his body as he gave vent finally to the emotions he held in such careful check for so long. His tears prior to this had always had a misplaced sense of saddened detachment to them, and they never seemed to relieve any of the pent up grief he carried. As they flowed out of him now, he felt the weight on his soul begin to lift. Perhaps this really was the right thing to do, coming here. Perhaps he could bring himself to some sort of closure with the Hunter’s death by honoring him where he had fallen. He wiped his eyes and nose on a beleaguered napkin, feeling strength and determination fill him again.

            He packed up the rest of his things and stood with a new purpose. He would find his friend’s final resting place and beautify it. He would also clean the chapel and then seal it. And then he would do his best to remember the man who had given everything, and do him honor by living the life which the adept had bought with his blood. He checked himself once more before grasping the handle, gaining his mental center. Then he heaved the door open. Or, he would have, but it was stuck. “Damn it,” he cursed aloud. He pushed again, and again the door held strong. Grunting with effort, he shouldered into it. “Oomph,” escaped his lips as contact was made. And the door remained closed, not budging an inch. He stood back for a minute studying the frame and the lock. Suddenly, feeling much the fool, he grabbed the handle…and _pulled_. The door opened on greased hinges.

            “Damien, wait,” said a soft voice behind him that he hadn’t heard since Mount Shaitan. Turning, he found himself confronted by Karril’s stout silhouette. The Iezu moved into the lantern’s influence, warm light revealing a familiar, if unexpected, face. And just as Damien began to open his mouth to begin the obvious questions, Karril interrupted, “You need to know something before you go down there. To prepare you.” The demon paused and leaned against the side of the passageway then, as if seeking its support for his coming statements. “And I think you need to wait just another few hours before proceeding. I’ve been down there ahead of you Damien. And I…changed things. Things that won’t cement until after full dark.” He definitely had Damien’s attention now as he continued. “I was there when…it happened. I…saw his death coming. That stupid boy should have never been able to get this far. But he did. And his mind was so set on killing Gerald that all the false walls and distracting techniques I attempted just fell away from his eyes. All he could see was Gerald’s death. And so I gave it to him, because I knew that he wouldn’t rest until he had felt with his own hands that Gerald was dead. I needed a dead body for that purpose.” Karril stopped and took a moment, a seemingly painful one at that. “And so I stopped Gerald’s heart…suspended it between moments so that it appeared to that boy that he had died from his heart condition and mortal frailty.” Karril shuddered suddenly. “I could never have foreseen that the stupid lout would want a _trophy_ as proof of the Hunter’s death!” Karril choked out, the grief in his voice so unlike an Iezu. “I did what I could, do you see? I didn’t know what else to do! And when he left…I…” The Iezu threw his hands up. “I was so scared. _Scared_!  Do you hear me?! And how can _I_ even feel fear? And the _guilt_. Oh, that is something no one ever warned me of. And those feelings shouldn’t even be possible.” He paused in his tirade, as if considering something, and took a breath, continuing in a more normal tone. “But then, many things about that man shouldn’t have ever been possible. Yet he always seemed able to bend people and events to his will. Why not a simple demon, eh?”

            Back and forth Karril went in his description and lamentation of events, and the Iezu’s banter began to wear on Damien, the words ceasing to mean anything after a while. And so he soon stopped listening and took stock of his inner reserves. He was tired. Bone tired. A kind of fatigue that one might associate with the scant moments before death claims them. And in his weariness he desired just one thing: to honor his fallen friend. He had no other purpose now, and he would not rest until he had located his remains and accomplished that. “Karril, I don’t know what to say,” Damien finally spoke, interrupting the demon in mid-sentence. He gestured towards the cellars, saying, “I’m going on ahead. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks waiting for some kind of purpose or faith to find me and direct my steps once again. Now that it’s found me, I don’t want it to get away. I’ve got to do this now, before either my resolve breaks or my body, whichever is first to give out. You can follow, though, if you’d like.” And with that, the former priest turned and headed back in the direction of the laboratory and cellars. Karril called after him, rather oddly Damien thought, “It’s alright, Vryce. I have no desire to reenter those rooms anytime soon. Take all the time you require, and I’ll be here later when you need help.” And with those unfathomable words following behind him, Damien picked up his worn feet and continued down the passage.

            As he began the trek down the darkened hall, Damien pulled up short, realizing there was almost no light extending down this part of the corridor. About to turn back for his lantern, he flinched as globes of light lit themselves one by one, extending away from him and toward the inner laboratories. He spoke over his shoulder to Karril as he continued on his way, “Thanks, buddy.” And his mind drifted a bit as he traversed these smaller hallways. He passed through gilded doors, down flights of stairs, and through receiving rooms. Although, what those rooms would ever have been receiving, he had no idea. And he came upon the final turn quite suddenly, which scattered his thoughts into a myriad of pieces. Standing there at the doorway to a sight that may tear his soul asunder, he felt very small indeed.

            Who was there to care? In all the world, there was truly no one but himself and an ancient form of demon who even marked the passing of the man who had saved everything. It seemed so unfair and unfathomable, no matter how logical the answer may seem. Tarrant was a murderer of epic proportions. He created and fed on an evil so black as to tarnish even the purest thoughts of a child. He was, for all intents and purposes, the worst this world had to offer. At least fae-created demonlings were just simple mindless creations driven by their own nature. Tarrant, he was an altogether different sort. He was of this people who colonized the planet; and he had betrayed them utterly. Sure, there were factors being excluded in this statement, such as how the church of his own devising turned against him, his obvious poor treatment at the hands of his own family, and then his own failing health. But these were not to excuse his actions. No. They were mere background fodder for the blackest of souls to build upon. He was evil. He was sin incarnate. He was an unholy monstrosity. He was… _my friend_ , Damien thought.

            And now here he was at the beginning of his circular thoughts again. Evil turned to good purpose was still evil, right? Or was it? If you forced evil into good acts over and over, could it not then become good itself? Or was there no such thing as redemption for those of Tarrant’s caliber? And now, what did that make him? Damien was at a loss for this answer. His tradition trained body and mind had long since dropped the pretenses of automatic hatred and repugnance involving the Hunter. It was far, far past that point. So did this, in turn, make _him_ evil even as he had been turning Tarrant to good? He sighed, loudly.

            There was no use in these thoughts. Keep moving. He started forward again, opening the final door to largest of the laboratory chambers. The one in which he had left the Hunter and Andrys. He cleared his thoughts, steadied his breathing, and pushed through the door and down the short staircase, the globes of light continuing to flicker ahead of him. He didn’t look around until he reached the bottom of the stairs, his gut clenching as he awaited the sight he dreaded most. But he found nothing. Just a large and dusty chamber with tables and books and other various instruments of science. He made it to the place where he had last stood with the Hunter. He noted very old blood on the ground. _So the bastard moved the body afterward_. Great. He looked around to guess as to where this new resting place might be. A light coming from another doorway attached to this larger chamber caught his eye. Apparently the globes had been trying to lead him, but he hadn’t been paying attention due to the mounting fear within him.

            He made it to the doorway and peered through, noting that the globes did not go all the way, but merely to a room a few feet down the hall. He moved slowly toward this light, feeling the sickness growing again within. He closed his eyes as he reached the doorway and turned to enter it. And when he opened them again, he couldn’t have been more surprised had the One God Himself come down and slapped him. There, on a small bed of dark golden brown satin coverlets, lay the Prince of Jehanna in repose. He looked as chillingly beautiful in death as he did in his unlife. Reclined against the pillows, hands above the covers and clasped over his breast as was the custom of many when burying loved ones. Not a breath stirred in that body; but then, had it ever? And he looked untouched by the violence that had surely befallen him. This was part of what the Iezu had been trying to explain to him, he supposed now. Karril must have masked the wounds and inevitable decay. It relieved him to no degree that he was spared that visual horror. Murals across all four walls depicted scenery from the Forest and the keep. Masterfully done, it was lifelike in its details, almost as if one were truly standing beside the babbling brook illustrated by the artist. An idyllic scene and grand tribute by anyone’s measure. Karril had already beaten him to it. Here was the final resting place of Gerald Tarrant. The majesty and beauty of the scene truly fit the man, and Damien was at a loss now as to what to do.

            There was a short bench beside the bed, and he sat heavily down onto it, placing his borrowed sword along the wall, feeling out his next actions. And the utter pointlessness of it all hit him. How could he have thought this was a good idea? Gazing sidelong at the figure beside him on the bed, Damien’s vision began to cloud. _What was I expecting? Just because he’s always found a way out of everything else…_ There was no rationalizing it. Against all sane logic, Damien had truly held a fragile hope that somehow the bond had been pulling him here to receive better news than this. Now, it just felt like a very sad and drawn out affair of self-delusion and desperate hope. He thought of all the other companions he had lost throughout the years, even counting Ciani among them because of the vast shift their relationship had taken. And he paused when thinking on her case. There he had thought he had finally found “the one.” That ever-elusive love that poets write about and musicians make their living from translating into sound.

            With a sigh that contained much more than just regret over Ciani’s loss alone, he turned his thoughts back to loss in general. And how sick of it he was. How was this any kind of justice? How was there any closure? His own righteous indignation banished the tears temporarily as he considered the black treachery that was committed here against Gerald. And then an instant later he deflated as he thought, _And I could have stopped it. Or at least died with him and not had to endure this…_   It was unbearable to imagine carrying this pain forever. He reached out toward Tarrant’s hand, pulling up just shy of it as he prepared himself for the difference he would feel now that the soul within was absent. And then he placed his weatherworn and scarred hand over the artistically delicate one of the Hunter. And he gasped as a jolt crashed through him suddenly. As though lightning had drilled through his bones and filled them with icewater. “What the vulk _was_ that?” he asked into the silence. His hand remained where he had placed it, but it tingled with the afterburn of that first contact.

            Whatever it was, it had zapped the last remnants of strength from him. He felt as though he’d been awake for days, weeks even. And maybe he had. But it hit him at once, and he felt drugged and sluggish. He began to sway and thought became difficult. He tried to stand and nearly fell across the Hunter’s body, landing with both hands pressed to the coverlet. Looking down at the bed he thought to himself maybe it wasn’t all that small of a mattress. He leaned down onto it and felt a calm washing over him as he set his course of action to lie beside Tarrant. After all, it really wasn’t all that different now from when he’d lain beside him before when they’d been traveling together. That last thought passed through his mind with a certain dark humor attached.

And he fell into the dreamscape fully, finding himself standing at the edge of a maelstrom of power. A huge vortex spreading out in front of him and pulling at his soul. No other object or scenery broke the dark horizon. Besides the swirling mass of energy in front of him, there was nothing else to let him know whether his eyes were open or shut, so dark were the accommodations. The energies themselves seemed so welcoming and beguiling, and the pull was a gentle one. His cares fell away softly, pattering to the ground as inconsequential as life itself had become. He smiled as he stepped toward it, welcoming its promised oblivion and subsequent peace. And he was stopped by the sensation of an arm that came out of nowhere to wrap around his waist and hold him firm. “This is not where you exit the play, Vryce,” an oh-so-familiar voice whispered into his ear. A shot of something both hot and cold sprung from his chest and fired his limbs, and strangely enough, his groin. His mind returned to the present with a snap of clarity and threw off the incessant attraction of the energies amassed before him. He found the strength to step back, and the sensation of the vortex lessened. The arm released him before he could even see visible proof of its existence. He turned and found nothing but an empty void. The same as before, only now seeming that much more empty. He stared around himself and his darkened surroundings anxiously, searching for something, anything, to confirm what had just happened.

 Finding nothing, he felt despair begin to creep back into his heart just as two hands grasped his shoulders from behind and then slowly ran their way down the sides of his arms, bringing shivers from within him. And again the soft voice spoke, “I _am_ here, my priest…just not as you would understand.” The hands had ceased their descent when they reached his forearms and remained there. Oddly enough, this didn’t seem to bother him as much as the thought of what the Hunter might be implying. He whispered into the darkness, hoping his voice wouldn’t shake, “What do you mean? Are you… Tarrant, are you dead? Truly? Is this, then, what’s left to you?” And he waited in horrible anticipation at what the answer might be.

            The silence stretched out a little more than was comfortable. The presence at his back did not waver, though, and soon the hands made one full journey up his arms and an even slower one back down again. Just out of his peripheral vision, the hands were felt and not seen. And as they were coming to rest on his forearms again, he felt the Hunter’s presence closer, much closer now. Almost flush against him if he had to guess proximity. And the shivers he experienced _this_ time were nothing unknown to him. Strange for this situation perhaps, but not unknown. They were of anticipation…and deeply sexual in origin. And though this disturbed him in some small fashion, it did not affect him as he thought it should have. In this dream atmosphere, it merely provoked a mild curiosity at the source. His thoughts were then interrupted by the answer, finally offered. “ _I_ do not even know what it is I am becoming. Something has held me here, though. And that power vortex is a part of it somehow as well, though I cannot discern its source. I haven’t fit the pieces all together perfectly yet, Vryce,” the adept said as Damien felt one hand slide from his arm and come to rest against his ribs lightly, as if testing. “But I am not dead. And I am coming back. Soon.”

            And suddenly the distance behind them was closed, and both of those hands with their long slender fingers whose grip had been only lightly touching became strong and slid down his waist and hips to grasp firmly the material overlaying Damien’s body. “And I am doing things differently this time, my priest,” the whisper came just at his ear.  “For I am free now. And I have had plenty of time to consider things. Things which you may have not yet. And so I have been seeking a different kind of Knowing lately.” And then he vanished from behind Damien, and though the priest was confused emotionally and logically, it still felt as an aching loss within himself once that closeness was broken. Its pain almost physical in nature. A mortal loss. A chuckle issued forth from the darkness, “And I think I have my answer,” a last whisper reached his ears just before he awakened.

            Eyes blasted open. Air rushed in. He felt as though he had been holding his breath the entire time he was dreaming. Thought and kinetics gathered speed at their own pace returning to his control. And then the events of the dream clashed back into focus as his vision narrowed in on the figure he was lying beside. Tarrant!  Alive! He stopped himself. _Or, at least, I dreamed he was,_ he thought to himself. Was it real then? _Or have I just become so detached from reality that I now create my own events as I like them?_ No, he was certain he had experienced something. Something profound and unknowable. But just because he didn’t understand it didn’t make it any less true. Glancing again at the reclined figure beside him, a thought struck him.

            He stumbled up to the door and shouted down the corridor, “Karril!” And after a few moments, he tried again, but there was still no answer. And the Iezu should have been able to “hear” him no matter the proximity, providing he was “listening” out for it. So he wasn’t here. Or, he just wasn’t able to respond yet. Perfect. He heaved himself away from the doorframe and tottered back over to the bed, slumping down onto the side of it. He was slowly beginning to feel better since waking, but it was damn sure taking its time. _Getting old_ , he laughed silently.

            He had no true way to tell time at his disposal, but he had learned the knack for gauging a close estimate of the hour in his early years of monastic training. By his best guess, he hadn’t been unconscious for very long, and he supposed the hour was near enough to midnight that he would even bet on it. _So, nothing to do but wait around until either Karril returns or I drive myself even crazier._ He stood and went to his pack, bringing it back to the bed with him all while trying not to focus too much on the all-too-dead body next to him. _He’ll be alright. He said he was coming back,_ he thought as he sat on the side edge of the bed. And if there was only one person whom Damien would believe when they said they’d return from the dead, that person was Gerald Tarrant. And so, feeling he had sufficiently reassured himself, he pulled out his journal and began to catalogue his thoughts on the last few weeks with his back turned on what had recently been the most feared entity on Erna. A few false starts, and then he was well on his way to authorship. And he was still writing long after another hour had passed in relative oppressive silence.

            The first thing he noticed was the drop in temperature. He looked up from his journal and stared at the wall across from him. Still. Everything was so still. It seemed strange to describe inanimate objects as being immobile, but that was the sense he got from the room. Like an audience holding its collective breath, not daring to move. Slowly, he became aware of a mist in front of his face. _My breath_. And as he noticed that, he set his pen down carefully on the bench beside the bed and breathed deeply. And then, from behind, legs slid down the outside of each of his own. And arms snaked their way underneath his while pale hands came to rest on the outside of his thighs. His breath caught, every muscle tensed, as a solid icy torso connected with his back. Not even a rustle of cloth or movement of air had accompanied the adept’s graceful coup. And just as he thought he might say something into the frosty stillness, he felt breath in his hair as the words, “Hello, Vryce,” left the lips of someone he had thought beyond all recall.

               Against gravity itself it felt as he leaped forward and away from that cold presence, whirling around as he did so. And when he did, when those hazel eyes met the glacier gray of the Hunter’s, he felt as though something was pulling him back towards the other man. But he rooted his feet to the ground and stood firm. Tarrant gave an almost-smile as if acknowledging the battle he knew Vryce was fighting within, and at the same time, he gestured with one lazy hand to the journal still in Damien’s grasp. “Bedtime stories, Vryce? You should know I prefer things somewhat…darker.” The globes in the room dimmed a bit at that statement. But Damien only stared for now at the figure before him, as if trying to affix this in his mind as being real. Being true.

            “I just can’t believe it. I mean, you’re here. Again,” Damien finally managed to say. “And it’s not that I’m not happy for it, but… Why? _How_?” The Hunter stretched up to his feet and rolled his shoulders and joints as though they had been ill-used of late. He looked around the room slowly, appreciating each scene even as Damien had when he had first entered here. He mused over one wall for a few moments longer and then turned to face the priest, approaching slowly as he did. “Why, Vryce? I do not yet know. And how? Well, I suspect that a certain Iezu will be more knowledgeable concerning the topic. This has his fae-writ all over it.” Tarrant stopped short from Damien by scant inches, the cold radiating outward from his body creating chill bumps along the priest’s. “I have suspicions, though, considering the push and pull I feel in the fae right now.” It seemed he was disinclined to continue, though, as he simply continued his somewhat predatory stare into Damien’s face.

            Damien spoke up, figuring he’d had enough of secrets and hiding and worrying. Did the other man actually still think he harbored some deluded ideas of vengeance? “Tarrant. _Tell me_. No more of this crap about each other’s weaknesses and whatever other insane ideas you may have about me betraying you. If I had meant you harm, then I surely have the worst timing. So out with it.” Tarrant watched him through all this with an amused expression. “ _You_ harm me? Oh no, priest. That is not the issue at all. I am only just now, as we are speaking, able to work any thought into my situation at all. The truth is that I honestly don’t know enough to say.” And so Damien now felt like an idiot. “Oh,” he replied stupidly back to Tarrant, “Well, why don’t you discuss your thoughts out loud and see where we get?”

            “Very well. In my state as you encountered in the dream, I was unable to contact this world in any meaningful way so as to ascertain the cause behind my return. And therefore...” “Hey, wait a minute,” Damien interrupted, “About those dreams, and this last one in particular…”  Tarrant waved a hand in a downward chopping motion as he began pacing, “We shall address those later. Focus now. Therefore, I was unable to gather any intelligence on my situation until just minutes ago when I reawakened to find you here.”  “So what did you mean about the push and pull of power on you?” Damien asked.

“For certain I still feel the fae,” Tarrant began, and with a wave of his hand the globes winked out and then back on, “And apparently I can still interact with it as well. I find this odd since the Patriarch’s sacrifice should have severed this kind of connection. However, the push and pull I mentioned is the Forest itself. I can feel it as never before, even in the height of my power, Vryce. I feel connected to it now in a way that is most likely vital to my survival. It’s almost…almost as if…” Tarrant swung about from his pacing, a look of discovery alight on his face as he approached Damien again, stopping a few feet away.

            “Vryce, I was _unbound_ , don’t you see? Granted, I had prodigious powers of my own to draw from, but my body was dying before, even as we had set out to return here from Shaitan, it was dying from being unbound. It just didn’t happen as quickly as I had thought it would, so I didn’t think to consider that possibility as being the reason behind my painful physical weakness. But now, now I feel as strong, if not stronger, than before.” Damien began to comprehend, but with a dawning horror, “You’re bound again,” he whispered, terror thrumming through him. “Yes, Vryce, but not to what you’re thinking. Not It, never again _It_. But the Forest, now, _there_ lies a source of power which I have already conquered and subdued. An endless supply due to its nature as a vortex for dark fae. Yes. I can feel it even now, supporting me. Feeding me.”

            Damien stood there taking it all in. It made sense. Good sense. But then, “How did it happen?” Tarrant looked thoughtful as he replied, “I remember Karril being there with me when Andrys was here. I was so weak and practically dead at the time, though, I wasn’t really able to pay much attention to anything. I think, at the end there, I had passed out. He must have done something, Worked a Bonding, that connected me to the Forest. It’s not really a complicated Working even. But performed on anyone else, the Forest would have destroyed them. Hmmm. It appears I am in somewhat of a debt to the insolent demon,” he finished with wry amusement.

            Damien was about to bring up another questionable point of fact when the Hunter closed the distance between them and the room darkened to almost lightlessness. The priest didn’t flinch, but he felt every bone and tendon creak under the stress to hold still. Something that could have been a sigh issued from the adept’s silhouette before he spoke, “Unbound, priest. And now bound again. But this time to myself. Do you know what that means?” And Damien suddenly _didn’t_ know. After all, this creature in front of him was capable of, and had committed, acts of violence and evil for nearly a millennium. Who was to say that he had only performed those services due to the nature of his Contract? Perhaps now that the adept’s honor would no longer be a threat to his own existence…a certain priest might no longer find himself under its sheltering umbrella.

            Dread began to worm its way into his gut, and a light sweat broke out on him. Tarrant, ever able to read him, laughed darkly, “Really, Vryce. Is that what you think? Let me show you different.” And the Hunter was behind him suddenly as he had been in the dream, hands running lightly over Damien’s shoulders and arms. Then they stopped. “Do you hear that, Vryce? Your breathing. It quickens when I am near. Why is that?” And one hand came to slide along the inside of an arm. “And you get chills at my presence that have nothing to do with my temperature. Hmmm.” And then that same hand ran over Damien’s flank and under his shirt to touch his lower abdomen, shockwaves of an internal nature pulsing within him. “And Damien,” the whisper came, “Your heart races at my touch. Why. Is. That?” the adept asked as he lightly dragged his nails over the priest’s skin.

            For Damien, this was becoming too much and entering realms of confusion hereto unthought of. Too much surprise. Too much to think about. Too much…pleasure? By the way his lower half was responding to the caresses of the adept, he had to assume that he was now in trouble of the deepest kind. Drowning in an ocean of uncertainty, he stepped away from Tarrant and turned to face him while continuing to back away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about Tarrant. And I sure can’t see how you can seem so damn sure of yourself  when you’ve been practically dead for the last few weeks.” Damien felt the bed bump into the back of his legs. _Shit_. Tarrant glided over to him, almost mesmerizing with his fractured mercury eyes. “I can see your eyes dilate as I come closer, Vryce. Your heart, I can see the pulse in your throat racing as I near. I see everything, Vryce. Bound to myself. I am doing things differently this time around.” Tarrant paused for a moment as if thinking.

            And then the firm certainty returned to the adept’s eyes as he continued, “Vryce, a good while back I discovered something about myself. And about you, too, I imagine. It only solidified for me those moments before my death on Shaitan. And then, after that, I was too mortally tired, weak, and apparently dying to ever focus on my discovery again. Until I came to reside in that dream space.” Tarrant reached out briefly and grazed Damien’s face with a slender finger, drawing a shiver from the priest…and also one from the Hunter himself. Tarrant’s eyes closed for moment, and then he opened them, gazing at a point over Damien’s shoulder, to finish his speech, “Did you know, Damien, that love and hate are so intricately woven together that they can become all but inseparable during times of highly emotional states? Oh yes. I have subscribed to that belief for a long, long time.” And then Tarrant’s eyes flicked back to hold Damien’s in a powerful stare. “But I never believed it, truly believed, until now.”

            And with that, the Hunter reached for Damien, pulling them close and tumbling them onto the mattress. The breath whooshed out of the priest as the other man landed on top of him. Feelings of confusion and excitement rushed through him. And other emotions he could not put a name to just yet. He felt as a mouse in the snare of a snake, helpless and mesmerized, as he watched those perfect marble lips lower to his own. And when they met, bursts of color ended his night vision temporarily. But oh, the sensation of that cold, hard body above him that had once been relegated to merely being a traveling companion, a brother in arms…he couldn’t think about it, much less describe it. His own internal thought processes were shutting down.

            Then there was a scrambling, as if to see who could unveil the most flesh the quickest. Buttons flew, cloth ripped, silk tore from slender shoulders pale as numarble… And then they were skin on skin. Damien’s brain couldn’t wrap around this choice of coupling, but he didn’t care. All of his emotions, all of his worries, and all of his fears were blown to nothing before this torrential gale of passion they both rode together. There was nothing in his sexual repertoire to prepare him for this, but as with anything possessing sufficient need, the fae rendered possible the impossible for them. Gerald’s fingers traced fiery arcs on and around Damien’s shoulders and abdomen. The priest’s scars provided mappings worthy of following with a quick tongue. And Damien found himself marveling at the beauty of the flesh beneath his own fingertips, feeling as though he couldn’t get close enough to the other to satisfy his need.

            When they at last joined together and found the marvel of singularity, both slowed pace for a few moments, savoring the feel of this new kind of connection they were discovering. The bond flared several times during, as though it was undecided as to what was occurring. Each time, it merely intensified the feelings of each for the other, as it fed their true emotion and thought along itself, allowing them to more deeply connect on levels spiritual as well as physical. Beautiful and perfect, this thing they did, that they created, grew within both of their hearts until neither could contain an ounce more. Glittering fragments of who they had once been fell to the floor with all pretenses of ever having been anything else. Nothing so fragile had ever held the Hunter prisoner before, and yet he was as tethered to this mortal as any human soul had ever been to flesh. There was something ethereal, yet solid as stone, about this new thing expanding within them. And it was right, so right. As if the very stars in Heaven had coordinated events of the past to lead them to this point and to each other. Damien’s name escaped the Hunter’s lips at the end when they collapsed together. Damien’s own voice having given out a long while before. And they lay there in the sated, sweaty dimness, wondering how on Erna it had all come to this from a beginning of such open hostility. Love and hate indeed.

  


	2. Darkness Within

**Darkness Within**

          Lying beside each other in bed one morning, fingers intertwined, Damien decided to broach a topic that had been swirling around his thoughts for a while now. He tilted his head to face the other man. “Gerald, you know as much about me as anyone, but I know so little about your own past. Are you afraid you’ll scare me off? Is it so big a secret, or can you maybe divulge a little?” he asked this in a light tone, trying to make it seem inconspicuous. Morning light filtered through the curtains, lending a glowing quality to the illumination. The other lay still and quiet for a moment before answering, “There is nothing to tell that you would want to hear.” Of course, this was hardly a satisfactory answer for the ex-priest, and so he pushed, “No really. I know hardly anything at all, and I feel like I should.” This persistence was received with an unreadable expression by the adept who slowly began disengaging his fingers from Damien’s. His expression shifted several times, through concentration, to consideration, to thoughtfulness, and finally, to a frustrated acceptance.

          “My past? You ask a loaded question, Vryce. And though I know _why_   you ask, it makes the answering no simpler. You seek justification of why I am who I am. You want to explain away my murderous doings with tales of a forgotten childhood that are enveloped in horror. And, oh, yes, there were horrors enough for any man’s spiritual degradation to begin under. But I do not believe that our past controls us this way. Defines us; Yes. Leads us; Yes. But we all make our own choices, every second of every day. And to say now that I regret those things I have done would be grossly untrue to myself. And to you. And I do not wish to begin this chapter in our relationship with lies. As I have previously stated, I am doing things differently this time around. And I will allow no thing as petty as a simple lie to undermine what we have found here… And so you shall know all of it.”

          The adept looked away from Damien and towards the ceiling. Damien remained voiceless. He had never thought his question would actually lead somewhere. He had only posed it in half jest, thinking perhaps to coax a bit of history out of the other man. And, too, he was ashamed to admit, Tarrant was right in his assessment of the reasoning behind this question. Damien had found himself in the last few days trying to rationalize how this man he had fallen in love with could have been residing in so dark a place for so long. It made him feel guilty having such a love for a person who had caused so much evil in the world. How much easier it would be to explain some of that atrocity with a horrifying past that had led to it! And so, he waited in tight anticipation for the next piece of what Tarrant would say.

          Tarrant’s voice was low and even when he next spoke, as though he was attempting to remain neutral where his past was concerned. “Words do no service in this instance. They are meaningless, and it is impossible to convey to you the depth of my experience with paltry tools such as they. I will seek other means at my disposal then, to grant you your answers.” The adept finished speaking as he turned his head toward Damien. “I will make you dream again, Damien. Nightmares no longer…at least, these will be of a different sort.” Damien felt a chill run through him at the thought of what he might witness in one of these induced dreams. _But this is what I wanted, right?_ he asked himself, saying aloud, “Yeah, sure. Okay. What do I need to do?”

          Tarrant sat up and turned to face Damien on the bed. “Just lie back as you are. Close your eyes.” And then, with a slightly dark-humored chuckle, the adept whispered, “Trust me.” At that, Damien smirked but obeyed by making himself comfortable and doing as asked. “Now, clear your mind, and you will feel me seeking permission to enter your thoughts.” Damien relaxed and felt a hand placed lightly on his chest over his heart. Then, he felt a soft nudging at the edges of his awareness, and he opened himself up to it, feeling it slither in and around his brain like a cold rain. His body shivered outwardly, and Tarrant noticed. “Mm, you make me feel so very dirty, my priest, that my touch should arouse such reactions in you.” And Damien sat up, grabbing the hand on his chest, dismay evident upon his face. “Never say that. _Never_ , Gerald. It’s different is all. I’m not used to it.” Tarrant stared him down with a frozen expression, “I am evil, Vryce. Never doubt that. Do not let love blind you as to my nature. That will only end very badly for the both of us.”

          Damien was struck dumb. He had thought…well, what _had_ he thought? That the Hunter would go all soft and fluffy just because of this thing between them? Wow. How stupid he felt now. And how terrified. And Tarrant saw it. _Damn it, he notices everything_. “I see that you are now finally reaching an understanding of what exactly it is I am speaking of. No. Do not deny it. Do not tell me that it is ‘different’ or whatever else other excuse you find. I have built my life and world on others’ terror and death, Vryce. This is not some simple love story wherein we both live happily, and easily, ever after. This is a true problem, and one I had expected would come up sooner. Expected, but hoped otherwise. For what are we to do at this crossroads?” He paused momentarily in his speech, seeming reticent. “I have no answers for this. But I can at least grant you the answer to your inquiry of my past. It may serve to at least blunt the force of this new realization that has come upon you.” And Damien nodded dumbly, the happiness of the last few days coming to ashes in his heart as he began to consider the ramifications of what the adept was admitting to him.

          Tarrant leaned forward and softly kissed Damien, letting his mouth linger against the ex-priest’s. Pulling back with some difficulty, he gazed sadly into Damien’s eyes, seeing the consternation and indecision growing there. “I am so sorry, Vryce. I can see I have hurt you deeply with this, and I do not mean to. We will find a way. Try not to think overly much on it for now. Just lie back, and listen to my voice,” the adept said as he placed his fingertips in the center of the big warrior’s chest and pushed him back down to the bed. “I am going to show you things I have never shown another living being, not even Karril, though I believe he has deduced much from my thoughts and reminiscences.  I trust you will understand the gravity of this exchange.” Damien nodded his acceptance and closed his eyes again, feeling keenly the new pain in his heart. Tarrant repeated the ritual again, hand placed over Damien’s heart, and his spirit seeking entrance. The ex-priest suppressed the shiver this time, but he knew before he did it that Tarrant had still noticed its beginning anyway. _Damn_. He cleared his thoughts for now, determined to participate fully in this experiential Sharing. And at first, he thought maybe he had failed, until suddenly he felt his spirit pulled free of its physical shell, and he was swept away on a tide of memory too potent to combat. Anger and despair, sadness and terror, and many other primal emotions overrode his senses as he drifted away into the gloom of Gerald Tarrant’s mortal lifetime.


	3. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerald has begun to allow Damien to glimpse his past through use of dreams. It begins with Gerald at about seven years old. I have made his eldest brother, Simon, 15 yrs old. And so, you can tell their approximate ages by subtracting one year from 15 for each name prior to the one you are looking at here: Simon, Roderick, Berndt, Kalen, Jasul, Avery, Timony, and Cason; with Cason ending up being about 8 yrs old.

**Cold**

            A solitary drop of water fell from the slowly darkening sky to land upon the soft brown hair of a young boy of perhaps six or seven summers. Its impact caused him to glance upwards in a quick motion. Rain. The patterns of fae across the land confirmed it to his adept’s eyes. This particular act of nature meant various things to different people. Farmers practically worshipped it. Peasants were displeased with having to trudge along through muddy lanes during it. The well-off paid it no real mind while locked behind their secure doors sipping afternoon tea. But for some, it meant a return to reality. And that reality was very much layered and flavored with fear.

            His beleaguered wooden toys forgotten on the dirt underneath the tree, the boy hugged himself tightly, anticipating the subsequent run to get back into the keep before the downpour. It was early Fall, with winter’s chill almost in the air. The weather was comfortably cool during the days and chilly at night. Rain, however, could bring about a shift in temperature that was staggering in these parts. Not to mention that with the deepening clouds, so came the early onset of night, which allowed the dark fae access to the surface of the planet. He watched the play of earth fae across the ground for another few moments, jealous of the seeming freedom it displayed. And then he grasped control of his thoughts once more. Clear the mind of the filth. Fae-sight and adeptitude were at best frowned upon, and at worst…well, worse.  And so the boy covered his toys with a rigged camouflage brush-cover he had devised months ago that hid his meager playthings from saboteurs and began a half trot back to his home. Back to them. And he thought as he moved that he would like nothing better than to be running in the opposite direction.

            He couldn’t remember when exactly his family had stopped caring for him, having only vague recollections of safety and being happy at some distant point in the past. He couldn’t remember even if there had been some sudden turning point or if it had been gradual in nature. He had one brilliant memory of his mother smiling down at him as he was being tucked into bed. She had touched his hair, so softly, so gentle. He would give anything to have that feeling back, to have more of just those memories even. But it wasn’t to be. As the youngest of eight sons, he had little power within his household. Initially, he had been doted upon, of that he was sure. But then, they began to pull away from him. And at first he was unable to discern why or even if he was simply imagining things. As he was maturing mentally, though, he was able to discern that there were actual differences between his brothers and he. And he had begun to suspect these as the initial root of the issue.

            All seven of Baron Harrod Tarrant’s other sons reflected the qualities of character that he most valued in the male gender: strength, violence, and just a dash of cruelty. If another slighted you, then you simply physically beat him until what was his was yours, or until the other died. It all led to the same conclusion for Harrod: supremacy of the Tarrant line. Nothing but total submission of one’s enemies would do for him. And so his sons reflected back at him those very qualities, and very frequently they injured one another seeking favor with their father. Every last one of them was large for the age group he belonged to and put that to good use to gain what victories there were to be had in youth at the expense of the other town children, especially those belonging to lower castes of life. Simon, the eldest of them at 15, ruled the siblings with an iron fist. The others, in order of their age, Roderick, Berndt, Kalen, Jasul, Avery, Timony, and Cason, created a band of malice to be reckoned with.

            And when Gerald had gazed into a mirror one morning, he had noticed how delicate seeming his features were shaping out. His mother’s features upon a male countenance, her piercing gray eyes gazing out from over an aristocratic nose that drew the eye to a slim jawline. Long limbed and gangly, he had none of her innate grace. Yet. That would come with time and maturity. And as he put those long legs to use now, he thought of how much he hated his thin frame; despised his weakness. But how was he to ever gain any bulk when the majority of his meals had to be taken in the company of such brutes as his siblings who found no end of entertainment causing his sustenance to disappear? Even attempting to sneak away from the dining hall early with a bit of food stashed under his tunic would always fail miserably. It was as though they had another sense when it came to his whereabouts. Inevitably, one would be waiting to intercept while the others followed. And they would beat him until he gave up whatever he had taken. They would beat him anyway, but giving up the food usually earned him a shorter torment. He had found that his father would only make things worse when told of these banditries. “A man should be able to defend what it is his, boy. A beating is likely just the thing you need to knock those ridiculous girl’s looks out of you.” And so he had tried his mother.

            His mother. Lady Argenine Tarrant, Baroness of Merentha, who cared nothing for her pretty little boy who served only to spotlight how her own beauty was in the last throws of its dying youth. At a mere 32 years of age, she had born eight sons for the Baron; and though she recovered from each birth with remarkable results, her body had suffered much through those repetitious enlargements. She saw now that her eyes no longer held a sparkle within them, and shadows darkened their recesses. Her waist was not large, but it was certainly far from the dainty maid she had once been. Breasts were kept in their high place by corsets and silk and by no natural gifts of her own. Her skin was no longer luminous but a slight sallow color. She knew Harrod took mistresses who were closer to his preferred body type, which she was no longer possessed of. She chose to ignore this and lost herself in her gossiping games of intrigue with the other women of court and traveled there often so as not to have to suffer the embarrassment of her husband’s dalliances.

            Gerald had approached her once, only once, when he was so hungry he couldn’t stand it any longer. She had been in her sitting room with her friends drinking tea and enjoying cookies and biscuits. He respectfully waited to be acknowledged, and when he did get noticed, it was by Lady Traint who said, “What have we here? Oh, Argenine, look at your gorgeous little son! He looks just as you used to, so beautiful and slender. And that hair, so shiny and with such a wave to it!” The other women had tittered and agreed, making equally complimentary remarks on the youthful beauty, and motherly resemblance, of this boy before them. And his mother had turned to him with a strange look in her eye. She stood and approached him at the edge of the carpeted space, then took him by the shoulder and walked him through to the adjacent room. As they passed the doorway, and she turned to close the doors, he began to cry, saying quickly, “I’m sorry to interrupt your tea, mother, but I’m so hungry. I haven’t had dinner twice now, and this morning Simon gave my eggs to the dogs. I saw you in here and thought maybe I could have some of your cookies. Please mother, only a few?” He barely got out the last words as her hand came whipping around from out of nowhere. And then he was on the floor with a small amount of blood on his face from where her ring cut his cheek. He stared in horror at her. She had never hit him before, and the look in her eyes was a terrible thing. “Don’t you ever come near my friends again, do you hear me? They are never to see your face!” she yelled as she came closer, grabbing his shoulder, “Do you understand? You are _nothing_! You are ugly filth, and they do not need to be soiled by your _adept’s_ presence!” In a world of frozen ideals, Gerald barely managed to get out a whispered, “Yes, mother,” before she shoved him back to the floor and whirled around to go back to her tea and friends.

            Gerald had lain there for a minute, too terrified to leave, until his empty belly once again reminded him of why he had come there in the first place. Feeling even more dejected than he had previously thought possible, he took his grief outside, walking the grounds of the keep in search of an idea that might bring him some luck. And when he passed the huge rubbish bin outside of the kitchens, he paused. Looking from side to side, he saw no one. And so he climbed over the top, and with a sickening feeling, he began to move things around in a pathetic effort at foraging. And as his digging resulted in a part of a sandwich heel, he choked down a sob at how happy the sight of that almost-clean bread made him.

            Shaking his head at the memory of his slow descent into wealthy poverty, Gerald picked up speed. More drops pattered around him. He could see the keep lights just up ahead. He changed his trajectory, aiming for the side doors, knowing full well his brothers would have noticed his absence and would be looking out for him. He reached the side doors and slowed. Looking off to the east, he noticed that the large front double doors had been drawn closed already in anticipation of the coming storm. He had made it back just in time. The chill wind was picking up, and the droplets were coming faster now. He hooked his hand under the latch and pushed in, almost running into Berndt, one of his nastier brothers. He gasped as he realized his dilemma, and before he could say anything, Berndt grabbed him by the hair and yanked him back outside. “Look, the dog wants in from the storm. Well, sorry, boy, you’ve been a bad doggy lately, so you’ll just have to stay out here,” Berndt was saying as he dragged Gerald along the ground and around a line of fencing.

            Berndt stopped at a chicken coop that ran alongside one of the entrances for servant-folk of the kitchen staff. “Maybe you’d like to stay in here, boy? Yeah, I think you would. The accommodations suit you.” And Gerald found himself heaved through the door. He didn’t yell or fight back. He no longer did those things. No one cared, and it only gave those idiots more entertainment. He watched as Berndt twisted some wire around the lock for the coop, which Gerald would only just be able to reach, but only by putting his arm through a hole in the coop wall that would scrape the skin off his arm in the process. His brother smiled wickedly through the slats at him, “Now, if you’re a good doggie, I’ll come and let you out in the morning okay?” he laughed as he trotted off. Gerald stared after him with an intense hatred that only children may know.

            More rain began to fall, and the boy shivered. At least within the keep grounds there was little chance of any demonlings taking form. Looking around himself, he saw the chickens had all climbed to one end of the roost. The spot where he had landed appeared to be where the majority of their offal had pooled. He was covered head to toe with it. He chose the one spot with a partially cleared dirt space and laid down, feeling thoroughly sorry for his predicament. And as the rain began to fall in earnest, and the cold crept within his soul, he thought that at least he would be clean when they found him in the morning. If he still lived. And he found that this scenario did not bother him as it used to. Death. What was death when one lived in Hell every day?


	4. Lies

**Lies**

            Tarrant’s eyes slid open, his mind falling out of the dream cycle in which Damien still resided. Something had changed in the Forest. Glancing down at Damien, he subtly shifted the ex-priest into a true sleep with an artful twist of the fae. “Rest now, and I shall return quickly,” he whispered toward the now true-slumbering form. His mouth quirked up into what could almost be named an honest smile for but an instant, and then the Forest’s senses intruded again.

            “Mm, someone is here,” the adept whispered to himself. A stealthy slide from the bed brought him to the floor, and with but a flicker of air, the fae had his clothing layered about his person in perfect order. Spotless, pressed, perfect. _Now, let me greet our visitor_ , he thought humorlessly as he glided along the ground through the keep. He chanced a look out of the window at the evening sun. Even after the last few days of his ‘rebirth,’ he still wasn’t comfortable standing in the noonday light. Even this smaller degree of it made him discomfited, uneasy. It sure was quicker to his destination that way, though…

            With a leap he sprung through the open window and ran down the heavily tiled roof slats of the second story of the keep. And as he neared the edge of the roofing, he set his feet and began a sort of slide the remainder of the way, a look of intense concentration coming over him. At the last second his long legs forced him up into the air in an arc, coldfire flaring bright with its unlight; and from this spot of non-illumination spiraled outward a large, sleek hawk. Wind ruffled the gleaming deep black feathers of the predator as it descended to the earth, whereupon the flash of unlight repeated itself, and a man once again moved within the boundaries of the keep’s yard.

            Tarrant loped through the gates and out into the Forest. _His_ Forest. He could feel the life forms within responding to his presence and seeking his will. _Where are they?_ he directed his thoughts. And a vague directional impression reached back to him, southeast. And so he adjusted and made no sound as he passed through the greenery. So easily did the Forest accommodate him that no trace of his passing could be found even now, seconds after he had trod here. Not a single blade of grass or deadened leaf showed evidence of the recent departure.

            It took barely a quarter hour to reach the area indicated; and as he drew closer, he could begin to feel and slightly taste the fear of a man in his domain. And though he no longer suffered from the affliction of the Unnamed’s contract on his soul, he still found himself tensing up in anticipation of the confrontation, of the death about to be loosed. And there was no mistaking his intentions. Centuries of evil steeped in the darkest of iniquities had altered his original persona enough that his enjoyment at this sport was quite genuine.

            He located the man, some kind of monk or friar by his dress, along a path that was purposefully circular. Plant life along this path was altered genetically to change appearances by the day, so that when those who passed this way yesterday came upon it again, they saw only a new trail before them. The man wasn’t quite terrified yet, as he had heard that the Hunter had been defeated earlier that year. However, the Forest by itself was haunting enough. And the monk turned with a certain apprehension at the sound that Tarrant allowed his footsteps to make as he approached.

            “Ah, you there, good sir,” the friar began, ‘Would you happen to know the way out of these woods? I seem to be quite terribly lost.” Tarrant made no answer as he continued to approach, and he ordered the Forest to silence its background noise. Deathly stillness and quiet suddenly permeated the pathway as Tarrant came to a stop in front of the man and fixed him with a cold glare. The man flinched under such scrutiny and began to back away, beginning to feel the cold that the living never failed to notice when in the adept’s presence. “Alright, alright now. Nevermind. I’m on my way, stranger.” The man’s heart was doubling its original pace, and sweat was beginning to exude from his skin. He continued back from Tarrant while the adept watched him with a kind of detached curiosity. He had actually been contemplating how to play with this one, but he found himself in no mood for games at the moment. Let it just be finished quickly. This man did not possess the kind of essence he looked for in a decent kill anyway.

            The friar barely had enough time to raise his arms and begin a small, strangled shout before Tarrant had him in a throat crushing grip with one hand. He held the man aloft for a moment, watching his struggles as if from afar. The fear he absorbed was pitiful fare compared to what he was accustomed to, but it was fulfilling in some small manner nonetheless. A short time later, he finished the man’s trachea with a quick shake that crushed both it and the spine. He tossed the corpse to the side of the path where the hyena vines would make short work of the remains.

            Gathering the fae, he used it to cleanse himself of the stink of the man’s fear and piss, and smoothed the wrinkles from where the other had grabbed his wrist and forearm. He glanced upwards and could barely make out that it was almost twilight. Time to get back. That regular sleep pattern wouldn’t hold Vryce under against his will. It merely encouraged continued rest. Better to return now and avoid questions. He frowned at this thought. ‘ _No lies_ ,’ _I had said to him,_ he thought. _No deceptions_. And he pondered long and hard as he returned to their shared room, playing scenarios out in his head which examined every possible aspect of this combination between them. And he shook his head sadly as he reached the doorway. No answers still. It would not be that simple, he knew, but he also did not look forward to this challenge as he normally would have any other. This one was bound to eventually cause pain on both sides no matter what avenue they took.

            He entered without sound, slid out of his silken trappings, and made for the bed. He managed to get almost up to Vryce before he heard, “Hey there. I just woke up as you came in. Where were you? Privy run?” a sleepily smiling Damien queried, deep auburn hair bunched in the back and frayed around his face. Tarrant’s heart froze in that instant, and suddenly he regretted his earlier kill as he envisioned what knowledge of it would do to his lover’s heart. But he hesitated only momentarily before saying, “Nothing, Damien. I thought I sensed some shift in the fae and went to investigate, but it was gone before I ever made it out. So I came back to you, where I’d very much rather like to be anyway.” And the ex-priest seemed to accept this, as he smiled and drew Gerald closer, giving a gentle kiss, saying, “Well, now that I’m up, can we investigate the kitchen together and see if there’s anything at all that won’t give me the runs soon after eating it?” Gerald hissed a laugh and agreed. Damien continued, “And, Gerald…maybe we can discuss some of the things I saw, dreamed. Whatever.” The adept held his peace for a moment and then replied, “No. Please. We will not discuss any of it until all is known. I have told you before that you cannot even begin to comprehend my motivations, and I think I will wait to do any explaining until after you have the entire puzzle before you.” “Well, sure. Okay. If that’s how you want it,” the ex-priest agreed.  Damien hopped out of bed first and began to dress while Gerald watched in silent introspection. The other man had believed him about his earlier whereabouts, but for how long? He sighed inwardly. Trouble? Oh yes, of the very worst sort.

 


	5. Clean

**Clean**

            There wasn’t much the kitchens had to offer, especially since the church’s raid and Amoril’s insanity had ransacked the entire keep only weeks before. Enough was there to piece together for Damien to subsist on for a few days, though, and he had definitely had worse on some of his travels. “I shall send for supplies by carrier bird when you’re finished here,” Tarrant muttered as he continued his unhappy reconnaissance of the cupboards and pantries. “Will anyone still even deliver here?” Damien asked with surprised. A glare was directed his way before, “They will bring it. They will not be able to do otherwise,” the adept answered darkly. The burly warrior began to say something but then stopped himself, thinking for once before speaking. _Well, it’s not like he’s actually hurting them. They’re only delivering things and then leaving. They would have done that for any other customers surely, so what harm in the end?_ he rationalized, feeling proud that he had adroitly avoided a useless confrontation. Tarrant watched him over his shoulder as all of this was passing through the ex-priest’s mind. He had been expecting some kind of retort about using people against their will and all that nonsense. The adept’s silver eyes narrowed in thought as they ran down the length of the man sitting at one of the kitchen’s preparation counters. And those eyes finished their appraisal as they came to the ground. There, almost unnoticed, was a small strand of dark fae that seemed possessive of the area in which Vryce sat. _Curious,_ he thought as he watched the deep purple wisp curl and uncurl from the ex-priest’s ankle.

            As they left the kitchens moments later, Damien commented, “If your reaction to the kitchen is anything to go by, then I’m kind of dreading bringing you to the chapel.” He had meant the comment as a joke, but there was no mirth in Gerald’s eyes as he replied, “Even when I was the only one here during many years, I always kept the larder stocked. _Always_. It is a…quirk I developed from my youth, even though I no longer consumed the food of the living.” Damien thought back to the hunger displayed in just that small portion of Tarrant’s life and had to admit that he may have developed the same ‘quirk’ had it been him. They continued on through the keep, tallying the destruction and noting repairs needed for the remainder of the day. As things stood, it certainly could have been worse. There truly was no unmendable damage. So the night ended on a fairly positive note as a result.

            Laying down later, Tarrant said, “I will begin your sleep with the dream memories and then turn it over to normal rest when I have eventually tired as well.” Adjusting to sleeping at night had not come naturally to the Hunter, who now often remained awake long into the dark hours before finally tiring. They were generally up now by midday or so, and retired after midnight, the adept adjusting slowly to the newly imposed sleep/wake cycle. Just another little modification he made for Damien’s benefit, as he saw no real difference in assigning one’s waking hours to either light or dark. But the warrior had always been a child of light, and so Gerald was altering this one minor habit of his. After all, it was but a small price for such wonderful bed company. Damien doffed his overclothes and climbed into the bed, adjusting himself for the Sharing to take place and attempting to prepare himself for what he might find this night in his dreams. Gerald lay softly down beside him, and draped his arm across the ex-priest’s large chest, whispering in his ear, “I think we shall go forward a bit this night. Close your eyes and relax, my priest. Submit to me, and let’s see what we shall find this time.”

______________________________________________________________________________

            There was no sound when Gerald woke. And a stillness was about him as he lay there with his eyes closed. Death itself could not have created such a perfect depiction of nothingness. _Do I have to get up?_ he thought dimly. Still weakened from the pneumonia that had set in after his lock-in with the chickens almost a year ago, coughs often wracked his thin frame. And he still hadn’t regained the energy that is often associated with youth as a result of this. His eyes opened and found nothing at first. Absolutely nothing. And then he realized there was a sheet over his head.

            His gasp of surprise alerted whoever was waiting there to his level of consciousness, and they responded by pulling the sheet tight down over his face. His hands flew up to grasp at the material, but the assaulter was too strong and only pulled it across even harder. The sheet had been folded so as to be thickened, and this allowed for very little air flow to cross its composite threads. He struggled as long as he could, but in the end his still weakened lungs and body passed into unconsciousness.

            When he woke again, there was no one present in the room with him. His fae-sense confirmed this for him. He tried so hard to never use these skills because of the things he was afraid would be done to him if it was ever discovered that he still used the fae. They had performed an exorcism when he was younger, and had tried leeches and beatings since then. Every time he let it slip, his family reacted in swift violence. The attacker from earlier must have tired of waiting for him to reawaken. There was no telling which of his brothers had done it, as they were all equally capable in strength as well as demeanor. His presence merely served as a distraction and entertainment to them. His life value ran close to that of a pair of shoes, though he suspected they would rather have the shoes. He looked toward the window and noted that breakfast was sure to be long over. Another trip to the waste bin seemed almost preferable to facing those monsters again, though. In the end, he decided against trying for any food at all, as his stomach had not settled from his near suffocation.

            He washed and dressed, heading out of his servant-portioned room with some small amount of trepidation. He felt hunted in a place that should feel the most secure. Home. When was the last time he had felt safe? Shaking his head, he knew he would never be able to recall. He was about eight at this point, and his studies had been added in earnest now, which had greatly dismayed him at first. This educational time was often spent with some of his other siblings present as there were not very many tutors available in this region. The instructors, for the most part, seemed content to ignore him. They sensed the household animosity toward this singular boy, and so they remained aloft from the family politics, preferring to keep their positions safe by maintaining a policy of noninterference.  They had to admit to his intelligence, however. He outstripped all of his brothers, even Simon, in science and mathematics even when he had been a mere half-decade of age. He devoured philosophy and Earth history as the poor folk quaff fire-whiskey. And his tutors would often excuse him from classes to study on his own, providing he reported on his progress to them regularly. This would often solve some of the frequent classroom outbreaks of violence for them.

            After one such episode, which left Gerald with a broken arm at five years old, the instructors and masters did their best to not set up competitive educational situations such as trivia games. These inevitably would lead to sibling rivalry and infighting. Gerald, being too young at the time to understand why everyone was so angry with him for answering questions correctly, would often win the upper hand only to have their frustrations taken out on him. Often, the other siblings fought each other, too, especially Kalen and Avery, but they were all of a size and nature to defend themselves well enough for the brawls to not turn fatal. However, Gerald was unsure if his father wouldn’t simply be proud of whoever was crowned the victor if this fatality occurred.

            He left the wing of the keep designated for living quarters and aimed for the library. Perhaps he could find a measure of solitude in there for a while. The place was empty when he arrived. And he marveled at how many books were available to him. Given his father’s mindset, he would never have thought the man would value the written word, as this room seemingly indicated. More likely, the man simply sought to have more than his neighbor so as to appear more intelligent by way of possessing so many works of literary art. A little used desk sat in the corner by the window, dust filming its surface. It afforded the best view of the library entrance, and so Gerald chose this spot to settle down with a few of his choice volumes. His interest today lay in discovering more about these scientists of old Earth, who discovered so many beautiful and marvelous things.

            From what he could tell, these men and women were given almost absolute freedom in the pursuit of their goals. Some very few were mocked and ridiculed until their dying day, only to then become famous later on after death for finally being proven right. Gerald chuffed at this, figuring he’d probably be dead soon enough at the hands of his brothers and no one would ever wonder if he could have ever been one of these brilliant individuals. He felt the power of knowledge within him, and he felt as though a great many things were denied him. He longed to be able to set this free and flourish under instruction by someone who paid him attention and actually cared about his future. His goals.

            Future? _Here I am, eight summers, and I wonder for my future_ , he thought acidly to himself. He was continuing along that line of thought when he realized too late that he had been approached by not one, but three, people. His introspection had prevented him from watching the doors closely enough. He looked up into the cruel, laughing eyes of Simon, Berndt, and Avery, as Simon removed the book from his grasp. “What’s this? Oh, this is too advanced for you, runt. Maybe you should try…” Simon glanced around until finding a quill. “Maybe you should try just doing your letters first.” He turned to the other two, “Grab him.” They complied, coming behind him and each taking an arm. There was no fighting them, especially not in his extreme weakened state.

            Simon came around with the quill pen, grabbed Gerald’s right sleeve, and tore it open to the elbow. “Now then, we’ll just need you some ink,” he said as he dug the quill into the tender underside of Gerald’s forearm. Blood welled out and ran down the arm. He had cried out at first, and then held it back. He would give them no satisfaction. Simon spoke again, allowing the nib to become drenched in the boy’s blood, “Now, here, write what I tell you,” and handed Gerald the quill. “I am filth. I don’t deserve to live. I am a mistake. No one cares if I live or die.” And Gerald began writing, his blood making an odd script on the page. “No, not on the paper you idiot! On _yourself_ ,” Avery sneered from behind him. And Gerald hesitantly brought the pen over to his left arm and began to write the words again. They made him repeat this over and over until the wound had stopped bleeding, the words covered his left arm in clotted, flaking bits.

            Berndt shoved him into the desk, and Avery turned and punched his fist into Gerald’s abdomen. “Lesson’s over runt. Why don’t you go crawl away and cry. And better yet, just stay gone, you’re bringing down the property value!” Simon hollered over his shoulder as he left, the other two trailing behind and slamming the door. Once his breathing had evened out again, Gerald walked to the door to check the hallway outside, but the latch wouldn’t budge. Locked. _I guess lunch is out of the question now, too,_ he thought dismally as he made his slow and painful way over to a recliner sofa beside the doors. The cleaning staff came here in the evenings, so he just had to wait. _At least I’ll not be hungry if I’m sleeping_ , he thought as he drifted off on the sofa cradling his aching gut.

            It was past dinnertime when the library door finally swung open and Harl from the house staff stepped in to begin dusting. “Oh,” he said upon seeing Gerald, “I didn’t know I would be disturbing someone. I’m sorry.” And as he began to back out of the door, Gerald halted him, saying, “No, no. I was locked in this morning and was simply passing the time in sleep.” At this statement, Harl looked at him, really looked at him. “So that means you’ve missed both lunch and, just now, dinner, too, young sir?” The thin, pale boy in front of him merely shrugged as if it mattered not at all. “Well, young sir, I still have a mite of bread and cheese in the servant’s room down the hall. Maybe a bit of milk, too. It’s not fare fit for one of your station, but it will serve to still the hunger you’re sure to be feelin’.”

            Gerald’s eyes almost filled with tears, and they burned as he politely accepted the elderly man’s kind offer, thinking with dark mirth about the food not being fit for ‘his station.’ Harl set him up with the food and left to fulfill his duties. The poor boy tried to restrain himself from overeating, but he had gone so long without. And tears ran down his face at the simple kindness of the old servant who had no idea of his struggles. Hunger seemed a constant companion nowadays. Its hollow ache almost a given at any time of his day. He ate his fill and took a small portion of bread with him to his room afterwards.

            Upon reaching the door, he began to smell something quite malodorous. And when he opened it, the smell hit him full force. It smelled of human waste and piss. Taking in the sights of his tiny room, it didn’t take him long to find the source. His bed had been smeared with shit and had been pissed on. His brothers’ latest art work. This would take forever to clean up, he thought resignedly, walking to the mattress. A hand grabbed him from behind and shoved him onto the bed, directly into the largest convergence of filth. “All pigs like to lie in shit don’t they?” he heard Roderick ask. “Oh yes, they quite often like to wallow in it. But look, this one’s gotten very dirty indeed,” Simon’s voice registered. “Well then, let’s wash him off,” laughed Roderick back at him. Gerald, face down on his filth-covered bed, felt hot urine patter on to his back, and then another stream poured onto his hair. He groaned in disgust and tried to push up but was slammed back down almost immediately. “Oh no, piggy. You’re too nasty to come play with the rest of us. Eh, what’s this?” Simon asked as he picked up the bread that had rolled from Gerald’s hand when he had been pushed.

            “The pig’s been eating where he shouldn’t. Pigs aren’t allowed where people eat,” and Simon smashed the bread into a puddle of urine that had formed between Gerald and the sheet. “I think he should have to give up what he stole from the kitchens,” said Roderick. “Nah, he never went to the kitchens; Avery and Jasul have been there watching all evening. Someone else must’ve stole it for him,” Simon said. “Well then don’t worry piggy, we’ll find out who, and you’ll never eat stolen food again,” laughed Roderick as he pulled Gerald off the bed and began punching him in the belly. “Give it back, piggy. Give it back!” And Gerald fell over to the floor. So they both began kicking him until he finally did vomit, so dizzy and disoriented from the brutality. “Any more? We can put a stick down his throat to see if any more comes up, Sim.” But Simon was done with this part of his game, “No, he’s given it all back, I think. You go ahead to the lounge, and I’ll meet you there in a few. Make sure that maid, what’s her name, Hanna, is there.” Roderick, ever obedient to the sibling leader, nodded and trotted away with a chuckle at what they had done here.

            Simon turned to Gerald and squatted down beside him. He looked at Gerald quite strangely for a minute. “I’m not quite sure you learned the lesson here tonight, pig.” And Gerald tried weakly to say that he had, but he was too far gone from the beating at the moment. Simon stood and rolled the smaller boy over onto his belly using his boot. The he bent over and yanked the trousers from Gerald’s hips, ripping one side completely. Gerald’s eyes flew wide at this. What was he doing?! But he no time to think, because there was a sudden weight on his back, forcing his small chest into the stone floor and making it difficult to breath. A sudden pain at his rectum tore a scream from his throat, which only earned him a blow to the back of the head. “Shut up, pig,” grunted Simon. Gerald whimpered and tears ran down his face at the pain. He could barely breath as he was rhythmically pushed into the cold stone. And when Simon stood up minutes later, buckling his trousers back into place, Gerald lay still as death. Simon merely huffed at the sight, saying, “I’ll be seeing more of you later, piglet,” before leaving him there on the floor.

            After he was sure his brother was truly gone, he gingerly placed his hands against the floor and pulled himself to the rug at the center of the room. He lay there, taking what comfort he could from the fibers that were at least kinder than the unyielding stones. As he looked back to where he had dragged himself from, he noted a small amount of blood mixed with the urine and shit he had brought here with him. He was too injured to focus on that now, though. He just lay there, dazed and heart pounding in his ears, wishing that he could at least be clean as he slipped into unconsciousness. If he must be hungry and beaten, couldn’t he at least be clean?


	6. Mockery

**Mockery**

            There were no words that could describe the pain Damien felt for Tarrant. Such a childhood as was slowly being revealed to him nightly would have destroyed most people inside a single year. Whether Tarrant believed it or not, Damien felt that these depictions of pubescent violence were exactly the sort of things upon which he could place adequate blame for the centuries of evil displayed through the Hunter’s actions. He did not want or mean to, but he found himself rationalizing past acts which were inexcusable to him only a few years prior. Well, perhaps he did not exclude free will entirely, but he discovered an almost rabid desire within himself to justify the love he held for this being. And so, even though he dreaded each night of inescapably horrific memories, he also began to look forward to them as well. Further validation of his meager hopes awaited him, after all. Tarrant had been a good person once, of that he was certain. But the absurdly violent treatment of him at the hands of his own family had obviously begun a descent into the cavernous depths wherein the Unnamed resided. He wondered, at what point would he begin to see this innocent boy turn into the ruthless killer that had then plagued this region for centuries past…and present? Would it occur suddenly or gradually?

            And as the ex-priest contemplated these revelations, Tarrant watched. Specifically, he watched Damien. He could observe no outward differences to the other man, yet he sensed that something internal was taking place. Something subtle, yet of great importance. If only he could Divine or Know it! But no, the other man would sense it, and then questions would start. Better to observe for now, since he only had suspicions and nothing concrete. He could swear, though, that he caught something out of his peripheral vision every now and then. Something dark and wispy. And it always centered on one thing and then disappeared as soon as he focused on it. Damien. He suspected the dark fae but could find no discernible shift in the pattern of its movements around the ex-priest when he focused his scrutiny there. No, wait. Maybe… There it was! As the dark fae flowed around the ex-priest, as was its usual pattern, occasionally it would flow **_to_** him instead. Tarrant glanced down at his own form’s position in the fae flow, noting how it **_always_** flowed _to_ himself. He looked back up at Damien again, appraising. Curious, so very curious. And so, he watched. Waited. _Patience_.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

            Two months flew by for young Gerald, and he began to truly recover from his pneumonia. This was due, in large part, to the food being smuggled to him from Harl. The old man with his wispy cloud of white hair and enormous ears had guessed much that night he had found Gerald in the library. And so, twice a day now, the boy found food supplements left in his room, always cleverly hidden. It was mostly odds and ends such as bread, cheese rinds, or half a sausage. But to Gerald, they were often his only source of nourishment. They never spoke of it aloud, but the strength of the gratitude Gerald felt towards this kind servant was of the fierce determination that one rides to battle with. He would repay the man someday when he was a bit older and had something he could actually offer. He promised himself that almost daily.

            Unfortunately, his brothers knew he was getting food from _somewhere_ , and they would often simply beat him until he vomited, or they would force things down his throat to induce the vomiting if the beating was insufficient to do so. He tried to be obscure concerning his whereabouts when he could, so that they would continue to focus on _him_ to locate his source, thinking him merely cleverly sneaky. So he would climb out of windows or go an exceptionally long walk around the outer buildings in order to get to parts of the keep so that they would think he was detouring for food. He would need to get better at it, though, because they would catch on soon if he didn’t find another way to vary his travels through his home. Once they figured out his current patterns, they would follow him and see that _he_ was not the one gathering the staples, which would lead them to look elsewhere.

            It was one of these long, round about walks that brought him to his current location. Perhaps he was prescient, or perchance fate was just dealing harshly with the unloved this night. Whatever the cause, Gerald felt a cold weight settle in his lower belly when he came through the main hall to find many people there already. Gazing around, he noticed that several servants who were usually stationed elsewhere this time of evening were present. Clustered together at one side of the enormous entryway to the Tarrant keep, they talked amongst themselves, some quite animatedly. Finding no logical explanation internally for this gathering, Gerald approached to find the answer, and snatches of conversations reached his ears that turned his legs liquid and made it difficult to breathe.

            “…was in the lockboxes I ‘eard,” one pretended to whisper. “I never thought that he of all…” faded out before it was complete. Gerald moved closer. “…there wasn’t a thing left, and I’ve known Harl for all my time here,” some adamant red head was finishing. Only one dissenter seemed present. “Took from the pantry and _nothing_ else. The lot of yeh should be asham’t,” said an angry old spinster as she shuffled away and over to the side of them. No one seemed to pay her any heed, though, as the popular rumor of some kind of thievery was bantered back and forth amongst them. And after a few more comments containing references to Harl, the poor boy was now in a state of disbelief. Had he heard them correctly? _Harl_ was being accused of theft? It was so absurd as to be laughable. Harl had been in the Tarrant family’s employ since his ninth summer, and he was now in his sixties. Surely no one actually believed these things? The faces beyond the door where the servants had gathered, however, did not look to share the same opinion.

            Gerald’s father and mother sat in the formal receiving room, which was patterned in miniature after a royal throne room. Gold filigree and large, robust columns gave a certain majestic, yet overpowering, feel to the place. Another method in which Harrod Tarrant reminded all visitors and supplicants of his authority. Gerald’s brothers sat in chairs behind them and to the right, while advisors and other household leaders sat to the left. Harl stood before them all, back as straight as its naturally stooped posture would allow. His simple clothing looked very shabby indeed before these folk, and his face looked to be holding back strong emotions. None of those arrayed before him looked upon his bent frame with any evidence of kindness or recognition.

            They had obviously been debating for a while before Gerald’s arrival by the look of things. A low murmur was a constant background noise as those facing Harl talked among themselves. It continued like this for several more minutes after his arrival. The dull noise ended, though, when Harrod waved an arm and began to speak to the crowd. “I have thought long enough on these accusations brought before me by my son. He is nearly of an age to be considered a man now, and so I value his word as a Tarrant noble of this house.” He turned his face to the old man below him, “Harl Jessup, for this crime of theft against we who have employed and sheltered you for most of your life, the punishment shall be severe indeed. I shall see you crippled and thrown from these gates. Any other family employed here will be expelled from our service as well.” He turned to face the expectant crowd again, “Let those present witness this justice of the Tarrant line.” And Harrod leaned over to make a loud and smirking comment to the head guardsman of the house, “At least he can still join the circus with a pair of mangled legs, eh, Reynolds? Ha ha!” Gerald watched in horror as men immediately came to seize Harl’s arms and drag him away. This couldn’t be happening! His body unfroze itself. “No!” the boy shouted, starting forward, “No, it was me!” But he was caught up suddenly by the old woman who had stalked away from the group’s gossipers earlier, “Hush now, boy. Your father won’t appreciate any contradictions to his will. Especially not in public,” she said in a firm, but soft, voice. “But Harl didn’t do anything! He only gave me the bread because I had nothing else,” Gerald moaned to her, almost collapsing to the floor. He was still so thin and weak that even an old woman posed an obstacle for him.

            The old woman looked him in the eyes for a second before saying, “And that’s a sad tale indeed. But something tells me that your father’d be right angry to hear it. But not for the right reasons. Trust me boy, I’ve been here as long as ol’ Harl, and I know a lost cause when I see one.” Her eyes were sympathetic and sad as she spoke these words to him. And Gerald knew, then, that the woman was right. No matter that this was a mockery of true justice, as long as the Tarrant boys got their sport. How he hated this utter helplessness, this despair! Would no one ever care about him? Would no one ever listen? And now poor Harl was paying the price for his family’s cruelty. And so he cried, his pale face reddened and marked by his anguish. “There, there now, boy. You go on back to where you were from and get away from all this bad business,” the woman tried telling him. “You come see old Urszula every now and then if you need a nip to tide you over, eh?” He nodded, but truly just wanted to get away from everyone. And so he disentangled himself from the crowd and quickly left for one of the upper gallery rooms with a balcony. Here, he had an outstanding view of the front courtyard and could be alone and unobserved.

            The twilight evening hung suspended over him in velvety glory. And a springtime breeze played with a few leaves across the way. Gerald gazed down at the cobblestones, awaiting the scene he kept wishing would not happen. But as with all his other wishes, this one came to naught. No one from the crowd followed as Harl was led to the central edge of the courtyard by the guards. Harrod and two of his sons followed, Simon and Berndt. Voices could just reach his elevated position as Gerald’s father spoke to the two boys, “As you are the witnesses to the crime, and soon to be nobles of the Tarrant household in your own right, I will charge you now with carrying out the sentencing.” This did not seem to bother the two boys in the least as they looked at the old man with undisguised malice. “You must cripple, but not kill. It can be a difficult task to accomplish with those who are elderly, my sons, so be wary.” The Baron spoke as if from much experience, his dark hair loosely clasped behind his neck barely moving with the breeze.

            Guards stepped forward with long club like sticks that the town watch often used for breaking up brawls in the streets. Each boy took one and then stood facing the elderly man and each other, as if trying to assess who should move first. Gerald closed his eyes for a moment and then heard the first thunk of wood and flesh. He noted that Harl did not cry out when Berndt struck the blow, which landed alongside the knee, though it buckled him over instantly. A second blow was quick to follow from Simon, who surely didn’t want to look hesitant in front of his father. And soon they both traded off well timed hits that eventually had the unfortunate man moaning in mindless agony on the ground. When a strike to the head suddenly halted the sound that had been issuing forth from Harl, the two stopped and looked to their father in panic. But he spoke calming words in a lecturing tone, “You see, it is easy to go too far with the old or infirm. Let this be a lesson to you, my sons.” And then he grinned before continuing, “Now put those down and come along back inside before the light is gone completely. We still have a dinner reception to hold.” Turning to the guardsmen, he said, “Wherever you feel is proper, you may dispose of this.” And with that, he began to turn back to his two sons, but something caught his eye.

            Harrod stared up at Gerald, who was openly weeping at the unfairness and cruelty of what he had just been witness to. His small hands gripped the railing with white knuckles. The Neocount fixed the boy with a cold and disapproving glare and then began moving again as he called out harshly to Simon and gestured upwards to the balcony. Cold fear raced down Gerald’s spine, halting the flow of tears. His father had seen him! He was frozen in place. But the fear slowly turned to acceptance after a moment or so of clear thought. _So be it_. Perhaps, in this small way, he could pay some form of homage to Harl. Gerald sniffed as he looked back down at the crumpled form of the only person who had shown him any kindness these last few months. Mayhap in the last few years even…

            And as he looked on, guards began to put out the torches around the courtyard, with a pair trudging over to the still and lifeless form discarded near the center. Its offending presence would be gone momentarily. The area became slowly swallowed in blossoming darkness as they proceeded dousing the torchlight. Footsteps in the room adjoining the balcony alerted Gerald to his siblings’ arrival. But he felt calm and detached for once, as if he, too, had fled this place alongside the old servant’s soul. Hands grabbed him roughly from the side, but his eyes were glazed and blank. Very little remained in the visible spectrum after the removal of the torches below. Only the luminescence of the gathering stars shone down upon them. And though they were bright in the heavens, the young boy’s heart held such a gathering darkness as to blot out their silvery glow from his world. He thought of nothing, really, as they tore his clothes and bruised his body. And eventually he stopped seeing anything in the physical realm altogether that night. He had been witness to numerous such atrocities in his very short life thus far. And from these, he had concluded one fact that normally takes years for most to deduce. The human soul holds the greatest capacity for evil that there ever was or will be. _Could there be anything darker than **this**?_ And his world slowly faded to an all-encompassing gray…

           


	7. Descent

**Descent**

            Damien held still in the early morning hours as he lay on his side of the bed. Breath frosted above him, confirming Tarrant’s proximity. _So strange_ , floated through his mind. _How is it I think I can ever get used to this?_ He craned his neck carefully to view the adept, always an artful sleeper. And true to form, he lay posed with one arm flung over his head, the other lightly gripping a cover edge. Golden brown hair lay across the pillow as if some intelligent mind had crafted it there instead of random dream-filled tosses. _And I wouldn’t put it past him either_ , he thought wryly. _Vain bastard_. Damien felt his own scruffy face and winced. Better to shave now before the accusing looks started. He lifted the sheets and slowly began to sneak his way out of the bedspread so as not to wake the slumbering artwork splayed beside him. But as his feet made contact with cold stone, he heard, “The day _you_ can sneak away from _me_ , Vryce, is very far away indeed.”

            Turning to meet those silvery eyes, he felt his legs go weak, partially in feelings of immature love and infatuation, but also with a touch of extreme sympathy for what he had just witnessed in their shared dream-memories. It was difficult to place those same sea gray orbs with those of the oft abused child he witnessed nightly now. Tarrant caught the look before he could hide it, though, and annoyance flickered across the not-so-dissolved bond they shared. “Must I explain again that I no longer consider those images of any note? I have recreated myself since then, and I have consciously made every decision hence. Save your pity, priest. After all, they got what they were due, didn’t they?” the adept remarked cryptically. It was a known fact that his brothers had all died within a short time after Tarrant’s own mysterious disappearance all those centuries ago.  But nothing had ever been recorded other than they had all perished. Horribly.

            Rather than face this same old argument again, Damien begged off to go shave. When he returned, Tarrant was gone. The bed was immaculate, as was the room. Damien sighed. For such a monstrosity, the Prince of Jehanna was certainly a tidy housemum. With an inner giggle at his silly train of thought, Damien proceeded to dress and travel the long hallways to the kitchens. How did people never starve by choosing to stay in rooms so far from the food? His stomach echoed his thoughts but moments later as he continued walking.

            Arriving in the kitchens, he found Tarrant looking out of a window towards the keep gate. The adept spoke as he gazed past the gates and into the Forest’s dark paths, “They will arrive today with supplies, so you needn’t be foraging any longer. I had them bring all manner of other things I thought living beings might need or find useful. It’s been quite a while since I’ve had to think of these things, understand.” The way he said the word ‘living’ made Damien’s skin crawl. Half derogatory, half…hungry? It gave him the creeps in any event. “Yeah, well, I’m sure whatever you thought of will be fine. I don’t need much,” he replied, trying to keep on the positive side of things. Tarrant’s gaze flicked over to where the ex-priest stood rummaging through a cupboard, “What you _need_ …I’m afraid I don’t have,” the adept whispered. But Damien was too busy digging for something to break his fast, and so it went unheard.

            It was almost noon when the first of the deliveries arrived. And as they kept coming, Damien had to wonder just what exactly Tarrant was stocking up for. How would he alone consume all of this food since Tarrant’s appetites didn’t seem to have changed much since his transformation via Karril? And a short while later, he had his answer. Ten villagers showed up looking decidedly scared but determined. None of them wore the blank, sorcerously Worked affect that the rest of the delivery folk had. So these weren’t under a Compulsion? What were they here for? And just as he was about to ask that very question, Tarrant had it out for him, “They are here for work, Damien. Did you imagine I would be cooking for you? Cleaning? Not likely. I have made my contacts in the surrounding regions aware that I am, indeed, still very much alive, as the term applies, and so one of the first things I sent for were servants. I am keeping to the bare minimum of staffing for now because I want to be careful who treads here for the next few years. But ten should suffice.”

            Damien looked at the line of anxious men and women... His head snapped back to the second gender he had just made note of. Women! Though none were of the dark-haired, frail type that the Hunter had so favored for his kills, it still shocked him to his core to see females of _any_ stature here. And again before he could speak, Tarrant having seen the reaction on his face, the adept cut in, “A gesture of good faith, Vryce,” he said smoothly. “That I have…changed.” The last word sounded somewhat hesitant and strange, but Damien supposed that was to be expected. After all, it had to be just as weird for the adept himself to have women in any living capacity taking residence in his keep. “Their families are all assured of ‘special protection’ from the forces dwelling within Jehanna,” finished the Hunter with an almost-smile. Damien spoke up at that, “Protection from _what_ , Gerald? This had better…”  Tarrant waved a hand in negation. “No no no, Vryce. They simply don’t realize they no longer require this provision; that is all. I felt it appropriate to extend it simply because that is the contract they are used to, from before. A few are even from my previous staff. They must have fled when Amoril went insane in the time I was gone to Shaitan.”

            Damien looked again at the line of people as Tarrant glided over to them to separate them for their new, or resumed, duties. They looked both normal and willing enough he supposed. Nothing untoward about them. And he would make sure they stayed that way, he thought right after. None of these folk would come to harm because of a lack of vigilance or foresight on his part.

            Some of them shot glances his way as they listened to Tarrant lay down new and old rules for them. Suddenly, Damien wondered what they thought of himself. Tall and rugged, with many a scar earned in battle, and a stance that told onlookers that he was ready for anything, he surely looked intimidating to the majority of folk on Erna. That is, until one spoke with him. And then his dark auburn hair and brilliant hazel eyes would dazzle them with laughter as he won them over with his warm personality. He hoped some of that warmth was bleeding off to this crowd. They looked scared enough already. He looked at Tarrant again, in front of the crowd. Warmth? He shuddered. What had he fallen into? Tarrant turned and frowned at him as he began to lead the group to the hug double doors of the keep, as if reading his thoughts once more.

            Damien stayed behind, enjoying the afternoon sun and wind, or what was left of it. It was beginning to cloud over, though. The violence of storms were often quickly drawn to the malevolent whirlpool of the Forest’s center like moths to flame. _Maybe have some rain in an hour or so_ , he thought. He walked over to the main fountain and sat on its edge, watching the water sparkle as it hit the pool. Cloud shadows danced across the water as the storm moved in. He was finding more and more that he actually enjoyed watching the strange nature of the Forest at work. It was artful how Tarrant had arranged this singular ecosystem to function.

            And then a more purposeful shadow caught his eye. _What?_ He glanced up. There was nothing there except an older gentleman bringing a cart behind him. Just another delivery. _I guess I’m on edge with all of these people arriving. I’ve been in battle mode for so long, it’s just hard to shut down_ , he thought. With all of the changes in the last few days, who could blame him for being on edge? But then he saw it flicker again as he turned his head. The man was still there. Nothing suspicious other than this feeling. _Hmmm_. He continued observing the man for another few minutes, but it seemed that direct observation only confirmed the normality of the situation. Sighing loudly, he turned away.

            Gerald was entering the now darkened courtyard again, having finished with the new staff assignments. The adept was still a good distance from the new arrival when Damien noticed the man’s hands. They just looked wrong to him. He concentrated harder on them, watching for even the slightest of changes. There it was! The man’s left hand was reaching in his inner pocket. _For what?_ And Damien’s breath caught as he saw it; the knife. It was Gerald’s knife, with his family’s crest on it! How did this man come to have it? But no time for that question; what was _he_ going to do to stop him? And why didn’t Tarrant see what was happening when he was always so alert for everything else?! Gerald was perhaps ten paces away from the man now. He needed to act.

            _“A knife through the heart is as fatal to an adept as anyone else,”_ blasted through Damien’s memory. Tarrant’s own words; how prophetic. And then Damien was moving, and fast. His legs pumped long and hard to cover the twenty or so paces he was from the man. Tarrant saw him coming and stopped, staring at him oddly. The man, facing away, did not see Damien, but heard his boots slapping the ground when he was a few feet away. The man only half-turned before Damien tackled him to the ground, shouting to Gerald, “He’s got a knife! Your knife!” And Damien punched the man’s face into the stones, then he grabbed his neck and shoulders and began to squeeze. Gerald’s interest had perked at the mention of the knife, and he quickly intercepted Damien, taking hold of the man’s bloody shirt collar and hauling him upright and away from the beating being dealt out. “We can’t very well question him if he’s unconscious, can we, Vryce?” he chuckled while pawing at the man’s coat and pants in a search for the blade. “He’s better off dead is what I think,” snarled Damien, surprised at his own vehemence; and he took some deep breaths in an effort at calming himself.

            And then Tarrant, halting his search, looked up into his eyes and said ever so softly, “Damien, there is no knife.” Damien was flabbergasted, “What?! No! I saw it! And it was _yours_. The one you gave me to kill the Undying Prince with, that had your crest along its edge, its…” his voice died out as he, too, searched the man frantically, almost upending him from Tarrant’s grip, and then looked to the ground to see if it had fallen out there. But in the end, he found what Tarrant had. Nothing.

            “I think…I think you need rest, Damien. Perhaps these dream-memories are taking more out of you than I had thought they would.” Glancing at the bloody and almost-unconscious man, he said, “I’ll take care of this one and see he gets tended to and sent on his way. Perhaps with new memories… You go get some soup or something light, and lie down. I’ll be with you shortly.” The adept was still looking at him in that odd manner, as if studying him at the same time as interacting with him. Damien looked again at the man’s face, horror and nausea overcoming him, “Yeah, I’ll…I’ll do that…Gerald…I’ll go…do that…I’m sorry…” he said dumbly as he spun several times trying to orient himself, and then finally exited quickly to the inner keep.

            Tarrant watched him flee, the shadows of the oncoming storm and the closely surrounding Forest making it just possible for the dark fae to gather in smoky purple wisps along the ground. Damien hastened through the fae-misted gatherings, and it swirled in eddies as his legs passed quickly through it…and then, seemingly, it _tugged_ in his wake. More so than a normal mist would. Even more so than normal _fae_ wisps would... It seemed almost as if it was trying to _follow_ him. And when he was gone from the courtyard, a small trail of fae could still actually be seen to flow along his pathway for a moment or two afterwards. _Deeper and deeper_ , Tarrant thought, his eyes closing almost fully as he added this small event to his new theories of human interaction with the fae. _Damien, what is happening with you?_ He considered the ramifications. Something different…something…evil… And… _And should I stop it?_ He paused, considering, and then he laughed to himself. _Or should I encourage it?_ Deeper and deeper _…_


	8. Smile

**Smile**

          Gerald ran. He ran from his family. He ran from his fears. He ran from the pain and the unfairness of his world. Why this? Why that? Any number of speculations flew through his young mind. At eleven summers, he was more educated than most adults five times his age. He was, to put it simply, brilliant. He could discern patterns where others saw confusing amalgams of nothingness. He could calculate, well, anything really, if he was given time and the appropriate instruments. But despite his intelligent mind, he was still just a young, pale and scrawny boy in the control of a family who seemingly cared very little for his welfare. Thus, one night after barely managing to escape yet another forced sexual escapade of his siblings’ devising, he fled from their presence and kept going. But not to his room, as was his wont. And not to the kitchen pantries, as he did when his room was being watched. When he made it outside of the keep boundaries, he continued to run, looking back often for the pursuit he knew would eventually come. He fled. Into the night-shrouded woods surrounding Tarrant Estates.

          There was barely enough light filtering through the treetops from the moon to see by, but his fear of _them_ was greater than his fear of getting lost. Branches thwapped him in the face and roots tangled on his legs as he kept on. Abrasions and small gouges appeared as he passed through these obstacles. But Gerald understood that all the woods did was draw blood. His family drained him of something more finite and precious, and so he welcomed the small cruelties of the trees.

          Eventually he slowed and then stopped altogether, almost collapsing forward. Great heaving and gasping breaths escaped him as he hit his knees and then gave up and sat down on the soft loam of the forest floor. He realized after a while that it had grown too dark for ‘normal’ folk to see by. His fae sight was his only guide, and he was largely unpracticed at its use due to the need of suppressing it for his safety’s sake. Any hint of this would mean more purgings and exorcisms from his father and mother. He drew his gaze across the trees on front of him, noting how the earth fae flowed into and up the trunks. He also noted the dark fae as it swept along serpent-like on the ground. It seemed to flow around and between all the living things in the forest, creating a kind of detailed outline for his adept’s eyes. Good, he could use this as a visual guide through the rest of the night. And then…he sighed inwardly. What did he think he was going to do? Live here? Ha! What a fool he’d been to run so far. He’d _have_ to return sometime…

          His logical cogwheels spinning, Gerald calculated just how long he’d have to wait before heading back. He ended his summation with the estimate of a little over three hours. In one hour was their general curfew. In another, they would begin to bore waiting for him to show. By the third hour, they would just figure on rising early to catch him coming back with the morning sun. And with that figured out, the bedraggled boy set himself to occupy his time by daydreaming of one day being able to leave this place behind him forever. He was certain there had to be a form of normalcy for him somewhere. Or even just a place where his own safety didn’t always feel threatened would be a change of pace. And amidst those pleasing and somewhat friendly imaginings, something darker lurked. In one version, instead of simply leaving the keep and his family behind, he also left them dead of an alchemical substance he had come across in his studies. He shook his head. Where had that come from? Strange.

          In the woods nearby, something moved, slowly rustling the leaves of a low-grown tree. Now, in general, the woods surrounding the Tarrant family home had been scoured of demonlings and such. And no one but the family and their servants were allowed on the land, so not many nightmares spawned by campside tales or fears ever sprang into being in these parts. However, when you’re eleven, things that go bump in the night can take on a whole new meaning. And unfortunately, in this world they inhabited now, thought could become reality. While Gerald knew and understood all of this and the potential danger he was placing himself in, he just couldn’t overcome his childborn fears. And so something moved again. Closer.

          Gerald drew his knees up to his chest as he stared into the fae-lit oblivion of the forest’s depths. The noise had originated from the left of his visual field, and so he initially focused there, soon averting his eyes as peering straight into the spot seemed to make it even more difficult to observe. There was nothing there anyway, he thought over and over to himself, somehow not quite convincing the growing dread inside his chest. His eyes flicked around the area searching for the easiest exit, the quickest retreat. Just in case.

          And as he searched, the movements increased and rose to a crescendo that had Gerald climbing to his feet in great haste. He had begun to step in the direction of his chosen escape route when his brother Kalen burst through the treebrush and into the space before him. Gerald’s heart sank, yet his spirits weren’t quite dampened by this turn of events. At least it was simply his usual physical pursuers and not the nightmare his mind had been building up for him. At least, he had thought so. But then his brother’s eyes found his, and Gerald took stock of what the dark fae was doing; what it _shouldn’t_ be doing. It flowed into and all around Kalen and then shown through the windows of his eyes. Flat eyes. Dead eyes. This wasn’t Kalen. It was Gerald’s nightmare of Kalen. And it took a staggering step toward him, as if unsteady on its feet.

          The young boy gathered what courage he had left and turned to flee as an unearthly moan erupted from the thing now behind him, watching his progress with the eyes of one recently dead. The sound was so deep that he more felt it within himself than actually heard it. It spurred him on to greater speeds as the adrenaline flushed through his arteries anew. Demonspawn! This was the very thing his instructors, family, and church warned about. Being so young, Gerald had never actually encountered a true-to-life evil fae construct before. Not particularly because of the protectiveness of his family, but more from his general confinement and poor overall health, he had simply never been able to venture far from the keep. Especially at night. And so all of his childish notions and fears continued to flood his mind as he ran from the thing.

          The moan became a screech, then the screech became an almost-human scream. As Gerald crashed through the woods, the almost-human part became more human sounding, as if it were adapting its new body as time progressed, changing vocal cords around to fit the surrounding flesh. A garbled mess of word-salad reached his ears at times, barely decipherable as language, and as yet unintelligible. And it seemed it was growing fainter! With renewed hope of losing the creature, Gerald dodged around a particularly large thicket of shrubs before changing direction slightly, his adept’s gifted vision a blessing he had never dreamed of as he avoided dips and rocks that would have otherwise delayed or injured him. Soon, he couldn’t even hear the thing’s pursuit any longer. He continued on for a while longer before stopping, though, just to be certain.

          He passed a tree stand that looked accessible only to someone of such small stature and quickly explored for a possible concealed hideaway. Off in the distance, he heard a crash and a yell. Quickly as he could quietly pull himself through the closely knit trunks, he plunged into the center of the cluster of trees. He quickly scanned his new shelter. He had about three to four paces in diameter within the circular formation and plenty of ground shrubs to further camouflage his whereabouts. And so he crouched there, panting, sweating. Fearing.

          Several minutes passed and the crashing in the distance faded. His breathing had returned to normal, and his heart was almost at baseline again as well. He thought of the time of night it must be and winced. He would have to hide here for a long time before he felt he could return to the keep, which would probably put him returning in time with his siblings’ morning ambush. Damn. And suddenly, the hairs on his arms stood vertical and tiny bumps of an evil premonition spread over his body. He felt air cross his neck as a voice directly behind haltingly said, “Hello. Brother.”

          Gerald tried to leap forward, but the thing hit him from behind, and he ended up more flung out of the shelter than anything. And as he rolled to a stop and began to pull himself to his feet, he watched in utter horror, and a sickening fascination, as the thing fluidly melted through the tree cover and reformed into solidity in front of it. It spoke to him again, its voice a good, if raspy, imitation of Kalen’s, “So glad we can find each other here, dear brother.” It reached out toward him with fingers longer than a human’s would ever be. “Come, and I will show you what eternity looks like, mortal boy.”

          Gerald attempted the only course of action he had, turning to again flee the scene. Something stopped him, though. And as he glanced down, he saw the dark fae swirling around his torso, holding him to his position, and as he frantically followed its source with his eyes, he saw it leading directly back to the thing in his brother’s guise. It smirked a little as it noticed his discovery, then gave a hissing laugh. “This won’t take long, boy. _Brother_.” And it laughed again as if it were making a joke to itself. Gerald felt his feet begin to slide along the ground as the fae dragged him backwards to the creature beckoning to him. Fresh fear and anguish filled him as he realized his helplessness against this thing. Why was he always so damn helpless?! Why?! It wasn’t fair! He had such promise, such potential, and _no one cared_. No one ever cared. He struggled mightily for one so young, but he was no match for the powerful wraith.

          He realized as he moved in the direction opposite that which he desired, that truly no one cared about him at all. Not even that old servant woman Urszula. She pitied him, but would his death really affect her? No. She would merely tut-tut and think it a miserable world, and then go on sweeping the staircase. His family would simply make a token search effort to save face and then hold a funeral quickly thereafter. His brothers would miss their punching bag and sexual abuse toy for about a day before they found another lost soul to torture in his stead. His father would probably consider this a culling of the weak from the herd, making the Tarrant line stronger. He had always known that no one truly gave two shits about his well-being, but until now, he hadn’t understood just how much that knowledge verily pissed him off and hurt him.

          Gerald screamed out in defiance of his fate, like a mouse squeaking as the snake swallows it whole. He poured all his hate and fear and loathing for life itself into the scream. _This isn’t the end of me. I’ll show you all. You will pay. You will all PAY!_ And as his almost incoherent thoughts of rage continued, the dark fae began responding, shifting its grip on him subtly at first, but then soon it writhed around his now halted body. He noticed and ceased his inner monologue, keeping the anger close to his heart the entire time. _What is this?_ he asked himself. The creature had stopped its mirthful looks and hissing laughter as it stared in confusion across the gloom at him. It gesticulated in the manner of one who has snagged a fishing net on a rock and cannot pull it loose, growing angry as it struggled against a force unseen.

          Gerald held out his hand, and the deep purple dark fae misted and twirled around it; almost lovingly, he thought. And he sensed a connection within himself to this beautiful ethereal and organic mist. It pulsed with his heartbeat. It pulsed with promise. It pulsed with his intentions. _What is this?_ he repeated, answering shortly after, _This is **power**_. And he looked back at the creature, this time with a look of hate that no child should ever have been able to convey. He felt his anger rising to the fore again. It filled him with an inner heat that burned away all doubt and fear, leaving nothing but hate and willpower. Out loud, toward the creature, he whispered, “You will all pay.” And then shouted, “And _you_ will be the first!”

          With a roar of pure murderous intent, Gerald threw his inner fire into the fae, and it flowed up and over him. It flowed into him. And it found what it was seeking, making the link complete. And then it soared forth from him in fiery streaks of deep violet to land squarely in the chest of the constructed fear-wraith. The thing resisted initially, grunting in pain and being knocked back some paces as the fae fire burned into its core. And then it lit up as if from inside. It looked down at its body, some strange form of wonder and fear in its eyes as it grasped at its torso. Its body seemed to expand a bit under the onslaught. And then with a rush of air and a heart stopping **BOOM** , it retracted into its original shape only to release such a burst of energy as would be remarked upon for years to come as a comet that had surely fallen on the Tarrant Estates.

          Gerald sat on his ass staring at the place where only moments before a true demonling had stood. Trees for twenty feet surrounding him were gone, simply gone. The sand and dirt of the forest floor turned to black glass underneath his body. _It was a true demonling!_ he thought again. A demonling that _he_ had defeated. And by using a part of himself that was deemed of demonic origin itself. But this kind of power couldn’t be of solely demon construct. Not if humans could access it and use it to destroy those self-same demons. He looked at the ground again from where he sat, still covered in its pathways and rivulets of the dark fae. It still flowed to him and caressed him, but in a different manner than it had before this night. He could sense it, feel its presence. And through it, he could feel the presence of other things in the woods. He closed his eyes and focused on this discovery. Oh yes, he would have to explore this ability further. Much further. He opened his eyes and watched the fae play across his hand as he directed it to do so in more and more complicated patterns, mesmerized by this new skill. He smiled to himself. And it wasn’t a grin of happiness. It was born of the contemplation of evil deeds and possibilities yet undiscovered. Master this. Yes. Master this, and one day, his family would be sorry. He would live, and happily, as he should, and they…they wouldn’t be a problem any longer, would they? Again, the smile graced his lips as the fae continued to hold his gaze, so out of place on one so young. And yet, it fit him then as it settled more firmly upon his countenance. It fit him then…or was it forever?

 


	9. Light

**Light**

            He thought often of the night of his enlightening. It had been months, yet the excitement never faded while he practiced in secret. There had been so much energy charged into those few hours, and he savored the discovery of his gift over and over. Or rather, the re-discovery of it. It had always been there, he knew, but it had been buried deep, so deep. Years of suppressing his adept talents had stunted his ability’s growth to the point that only his adept’s special vision was present. And that only because there was no actual way to be rid of it. However, as long as he had never acknowledged his vision of the ebb and flow of the fae constantly surrounding and immersed in the very fabric of Erna, he was able to hide this one flaw. Flaw? Why did people not understand? Here was evidence that his race was actually finally adapting to the cruelties this planet put forth, and yet they spurned it.

            Gerald knew from his history studies that this had ever been the way of mankind. Things they couldn’t comprehend were either subjugated or destroyed. Utterly. Be it natural, manmade, or even a fellow man, any inconsistencies with the known were always persecuted. This adaptation of mankind would be a long time in finding acceptance. He sighed inwardly. They could change the very material of this world with only their beliefs if they so chose. His small measure of affecting the fae was proof of what a _single_ adept could do. What if hundreds, or better yet thousands, bent their will toward the betterment of mankind? The magnitude of change they could bring about was staggering, especially for an eleven year old’s limited perspective. But this, as with most of his ideas nowadays, would have to wait until he was older to pursue.

            The prospects of him actually achieving adulthood were better than they had ever been, though. Recently, Simon had been required to spend more and more of his time with their father, learning the house business and management in preparation for the day he took over. Roderick and Berndt would be joining the ranks of King Gannon’s military forces within the next few weeks. Not that they volunteered for this. Harrod had decided that the manly thing to do would be to have military men in the family as well. This would reflect well with the king on the Tarrant’s commitment to his campaigns. Avery and Timony, being the youngest besides himself, were also the poorest pupils, and so Harrod was going to foster them out to various noble houses over the next four or so years of their lives in order to expose them to new tutors and open their eyes to the rest of the realm. Jasul had been left out of the planning, as he was too quick tempered to foster out and risk embarrassing the Tarrants. And he certainly would find no high ranking in the military with his poor disposition and attitude. And so he would remain, providing company and socialization to Simon and learning to host social gatherings and whatnot. Perhaps Harrod thought to make of him an advisor to the future Baron? Whatever the reasoning, Gerald was glad of the respite. He was eating better than he ever had (two eggs this morning!). Most of the time he even got to eat twice per day. For certain it was not the most illustrious fare, but he had learned that he could time his entrance just right so that everyone else had left the table. Then he could grab what was available before the servants cleared the dishes and retreat somewhere to consume it. And perhaps most important of all, his body was finally able to heal uninterrupted. If he were so inclined any longer, he might have smiled.

            Standing up from his reclining point on a hill overlooking the road into town, he watched as a small handcart made a wobbly path on the road, propelled by a very small woman. _Something must be wrong with one of the wheels_ , he thought to himself as the cart veered suddenly left and teetered before halting altogether. Ah, not a woman, he saw now, but a girl. And the young girl, of about his age, perhaps a year older, came around to the cart’s front and kicked the wheel that was under suspicion. And then she promptly cursed in a most unladylike manner at the pain that shot through her foot, hopping up and down. It would be funny, if Gerald still held any laughter within himself. As it was, his humor tended toward the morose and dark nowdays.

            Still, he felt a certain pity for the girl as she struggled to pull the cart straight so she could examine the damage. And so he headed down the hillside, not sure of exactly what he could do but determined to try something. Walking briskly, he made quick observations of her form as he approached. Her straw colored hair was wind-whipped and sweaty, though the temperature was only mildly warm for a spring day. Her tanned cheeks were ruddy from fighting with the cart, and her ice blue eyes showed surprise at having been observed when she finally noted his approach. “Well that’s just perfect!” she said to no one in particular, pushing at the cart as if to shove it away. “I have to go and get a busted wheel and then a busted foot; and to top it off, I even had an audience. Bravo to me!” She stood up fully, shaking her head and wiping her hands on her sides. “And who might my audience be, I wonder?” she asked lightly in his direction.

            Gerald sketched a somewhat hasty bow and said, “No one who hasn’t had worse things happen to himself; and in front of far larger audiences.” He finished with a smile he hoped was genuine. Nothing about social interaction came naturally anymore to him. She eyed him for a moment, and then seemed to make up her mind. “Well, I’m Jerilyn. Jerilyn Tolther. But please do call me Jeri, as it offends my father to no end, and that seems to be the most I can do for him anymore,” she finished with a wave to the cart. Gerald stepped forward a bit, eyeing the cart, and said, “I’m Gerald. Er. Tarrant. Gerald Tarrant.” He winced at how strange that had come out, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. She was staring at him and the direction he had come from a bit funny, though, so he hastened to say, “I was walking up there and saw you. I came down to see if I could be of any help, although I’m no cartwright or wheelsmith by any means.”

            She sighed, and walked over to a patch of grass. “Well, have at it as you will. I’m certainly not getting anywhere with _beating_ it back into shape.” And she sat down in a dejected manner. “My father has me bring these clocks and constructs of his to market every week. He’s got a bad leg and can’t work like most of the crafters and such. He’s slower. And with mother gone from the consumption last year, I’m all we have to bring them here. Except now I can’t even do that.” As she carried on, Gerald noted a tinge of almost-panic to her voice, though she hid it well. Why else be so talkative with a stranger? This was obviously of some great import to her family’s livelihood, and he unquestionably knew what it was like to feel helpless in the face of bad turns of events.

            He let her continue speaking as he examined the wheel. One of the cog pins and spokes was broken straight through. This would take much time and effort to repair, and more skill than he possessed. Not to mention what it would cost. And looking at the girl now with a new set of appraising eyes, he figured she wouldn’t be able to easily produce the necessary sum. From her well-worn traveling shoes to her threadbare cap, she looked perhaps a week from poverty to him. But for someone with such ill prospects, she seemed to keep a good, if sardonic, face on things. He wished _he_ could do so well at mimicking happiness.

            He kept glancing askance at her to ascertain that she wasn’t paying any heed to what he was doing before placing his hand to the broken parts of the wheel. He set the belief in his mind that the parts were just as whole as they had been but minutes ago and pulled from the earth fae at his feet. He was immediately glad to be slightly sheltered from her view, as the earth fae pulsed once between his hands, a brilliant green, and then turned a more subdued hue of pastel as it oozed and flowed around the wooden pieces. He realized she had stopped talking at that moment and looked up. She was standing as if to approach.

            “Oh, don’t come over just yet,” he said quickly, drawing a strange look from her. “It’s just, this looks like delicate work and it might slip up if two were to give it their attention.” She listened to him and seemed to mouth the phrase ‘delicate work’ in a bit confused fashion. And why shouldn’t she? How was a wheel spoke made of anything delicate? He cursed himself for a lackwit and hurriedly tried to finish the Working. He hadn’t ever completed a Mending (his own choice of naming) on this scale before, so he was a bit apprehensive at first when he let go of the fae. Thus far, he had only managed to reconnect pieces of yarn and string. This took much more concentration, and he was almost sweating when he finished, although that could have been from the stress of being observed.

            “I think I may have got it,” he said, and she came around to him. “It was just slipped out I guess and required some finagling to fit back in place.” She looked at the spoke and cog, and then turned to him with questioning eyes, “This was broke clean through before. I saw it only briefly, but it was. Clean through.” Shock ran through him. He hadn’t even thought of the fact that she might have assessed the damage herself!  How ignorant! He stuttered, “Surely you are mistaken, Miss. I saw no breaks. Just slipped the things back into place.” And she looked about to speak again, but caught herself, her cool blue eyes absorbing his uncomfortable manner. “Very well then. Let’s say I believe you. I can hardly argue the results, and now I’ll be able to bring my father’s pieces to the vendor.” She smiled then, and offered out her hand. “Thank you. Really, thank you.” He breathed an inward sigh of relief. He took the proffered hand and bowed in mock gallantry, drawing a giggle from her.

            They spoke for another few minutes about the market and town, how she wished she could keep going and see other places. She asked one time in jest, “Are you always out and about wandering the hills here in the middle of the day? Don’t you have family or friends to be larking about with?” But he had replied quite seriously, “They will not even know I am gone.” He then looked away as he said even softer, so that she strained to interpret his words, “They wouldn’t care if they did.” And she had let up immediately after that, as if sensing the strain below his surface. More frivolities passed, and he found her to be quite witty with a strong sarcastic streak. It felt good to finally talk with someone who wasn’t trying to belittle him. And then she needed to go.

            “But I come through here the same day every week, you know. If you’re out a roving in the hills again, you could keep me company. It’s tiresome trudging this road forever and ever with no friendly face to wake you up.” He smiled and agreed, surprising himself with his actual feeling of commitment to meet her again. She left then, taking up her cart and pushing it anew in the direction of the town. He watched her go for a long while, thinking he hadn’t felt so useful and appreciated in…had he ever? He found himself looking forward to their next meeting. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel completely numb. To Jeri, he had been a normal person, and had been of assistance to her even. He tried to hold on to this good feeling as he made his way back to the keep later that evening. And in the wake of this tide of joy, the blackness growing within his soul halted its flight. It did not dissipate or leave, though. It paused…as if waiting.


	10. Awake

**Awake**

            Vryce awoke to an early morning light caressing his face with its soft warmth. _How did he ever go all those centuries without this?_ he thought of Tarrant as he enjoyed the feeling. Stretching, he felt suddenly that he was not where he had originally fallen asleep. His eyes flew open, and he found himself splayed across a reclining sofa that faced the eastern windows of the library. _How weird_. He had never been much of a sleepwalker. The dream-memories must be affecting his body as well as his mind. But he supposed that should have been anticipated. He looked around himself but didn’t see Tarrant anywhere near. Neither did he feel the biting chill that would announce the other man’s presence in the absence of visual detection.

            He pushed himself out of his makeshift bed and stretched deeply, pondering the latest revelations of his dreams. At the point just before he woke up, Gerald had met the girl again the next week when she came through with her still-functioning cart. _What was her name? Ah, Jeri!_ They had sat on the side of the road eating some apples she had brought with her that a neighbor had bestowed on her prior to setting out for the day. As Gerald rarely had access to food that he could take his time to eat, the crisp, sweet fruits had been a true delight of his day. But not quite as much as Jeri herself. They had exchanged a bit of their pasts, Jeri more so than Tarrant. And then had moved on to more interesting topics, such as the Hallowed Eve Festival. They discussed costume possibilities and festival activities of mutual interest. And the young Hunter had laughed… _laughed_! When had Damien ever heard such an expression of joy spring forth from the man he knew now? As it was, he barely even chuckled at the most dark and macabre of ironies.

            This girl had truly lifted the poor boy’s spirit, and Damien was glad of it. It was horrifying seeing someone so young become as morose as one four times his age and twice again as miserable in soul. For a while before this meeting had occurred, Damien had figured that this was it; this was where the descent into darkness would begin. Especially after Gerald had realized the power at his command! However, that had not been as it had seemed. The ex-priest had thought for sure that Gerald would almost immediately set about him with destructive intentions upon next meeting with one of his brothers. But it was not to be that simple for the growing adept.

            Special amulets were created after the first 100 years of the colonization that could repel fae-born attacks of most sorts. Damien had heard of these mentioned in his studies as an acolyte but had never heard a first-hand accounting of them. Only the very wealthy could procure them, he knew, and _they_ were not likely to put down on paper their strengths or weaknesses. The formula for these amulets lost its effectiveness against the fae after about 50 years, though. The fae, being the adaptive organic substance that it is, found ways around these blocking agents, and once again the fae-born creatures were able to access those folk previously denied them. However, in the time period that Gerald lived in, these had still functioned quite well.

            The Tarrant family all had at least one, and they wore them at all times apparently. Excepting, of course, Gerald, who had had no idea if he had _ever_ been in possession of one. All he knew was that he certainly did not have one now. One of his siblings had most likely stolen or broken it long ago. And so Gerald had simply resorted to practicing on his own in secret, building his strengths and ferreting out his weaknesses. It was slow muddling, but progress was being made.

            Damien’s dream had concluded with the boy’s brilliant laughter, so open and genuine. He wished that same humanity would reemerge eventually, but he was happy for now that Tarrant at least wasn’t capturing women any longer for his hunts. And so, satisfied with his early morning contemplations, he ambled on out to the courtyard for a little jog and some calisthenics prior to breakfast. He would find Gerald after his exercise and a bath.

            As he passed through the large entryway, he caught someone off in the corner of his vision coming down the double staircase…and his heart froze. _Senzei!_ His body whipped in place to face his old traveling companion…his old, _dead_ , traveling companion. But there was no one there… What? He looked all around, the hairs on his arms standing up, but no one was in evidence. He _knew_ what he had seen. The person’s bearing and gait had been unmistakably that of Senzei Reese. There, but not there. He calmed himself with slow, deep breaths. He told himself he was just off a bit from waking in a strange location. And he probably hadn’t slept all that well anyway if those dream-memories had kept on until just before he woke. Tarrant was supposed to turn them off after a few hours so his mind could return to a normal state of sleep. He’d ask him about that later.

            He shook off the eerie feeling from moments before and marched out to the courtyard. Finding a good expanse of stones, he dropped to the ground and began a series of push-ups and abdominal routines, shoving the whole creepy episode out of his thoughts. It took a few minutes, but soon the sweat was pouring from him as he increased the tempo and difficulty of the maneuvers he was performing. The incident not forgotten, but at least not at the forefront of his mind for the time being. He closed his eyes as he finished a set of one-armed push-up planks, and when he opened them he gasped, lost his balance, and fell forward into a stream of blood that was working its way under and past him. It was still warm and stuck to him as if jelly-like. He scrambled out of it and stood up, looking for the fountain so he could leap into it. And then he noticed the stream of red fluid wasn’t there anymore. He looked down at his chest and abdomen, then his hands. All clean.

            Heart pounding, he ran back inside the keep, stopping in the great entryway once more. He closed his eyes for a moment and focused on the bond between Tarrant and himself, feeling it tug him toward the observatory. Opening his eyes, he scanned his surroundings slowly. Something was definitely not right. Things seemed…how could he describe it? Darker? More malignant than they should? But they were just the same as before even so. Maybe it was just in his head? And with this thought, not as comforting as he would like it to be, he jogged off in the direction of the observatory, heading to the top of the keep.

            Tarrant watched Damien as he thrashed around on the stonework far below him. _The blood was a nice touch,_ he thought to himself. _That ought to get him paranoid enough that he won’t be leaving the keep any time soon_. Which was exactly as Tarrant wished it. With Damien a captive of his own imagination, the Hunter would be free to enter towns in the surrounding area and kill as he wished, all the time keeping the secret from his lover. _Perfect_ , he mused to himself.

            Tarrant turned with feigned surprise as Damien crashed onto the observatory balcony. The old earth instruments of star gazing were still in their occupied spaces of years before. Sunlight gleamed off of the telescope’s lens as the ex-priest approached with heaving breaths. “Damien, what is it?” He glided over to the big man, a face of concern masking his deceit. “You look…well, you look out of sorts, my priest,” the Hunter purred in absolute innocence. Damien took a few moments to catch his breath before replying, “I think there’s something weird going on with my mind or something, Gerald. Just now, in the courtyard, I thought I saw blood all over the stones; I even _felt_ it.” He held out his hands as if to show the adept. “But it wasn’t there when I looked again. And I woke up in the library this morning.” Almost back in a regular breathing pattern, he asked, “Do you think it’s something to do with your memories?”

            Tarrant had already prepared his placating speech and opened his mouth to let it out when suddenly Damien continued speaking, “And before, in the entryway, I thought I saw Senzei. He was coming down the left staircase, but when I focused on him, he was gone!” This stopped Tarrant short, his eyes narrowing. _Senzei?_ he thought, perplexed. _I surely had no part in that_. _Hmmm…_ But he spoke reassurances to Vryce, claiming the blame lay with the Forest itself. Surely, his mortal frame could not withstand the evil pull of the Forest for long without it affecting his mind? Staying within the keep walls for now would be best, at least until this is all figured out. Right? And Damien, in a numb sort of way, just nodded his acceptance.

            Tarrant placed a light kiss upon the warrior’s brow, and then pulled the other man to him. “You’ll be fine, Vryce. You’ll see. Nothing here will harm you as long as I am master. Nothing.” And Damien leaned into the embrace after a while, accepting the seeming safety and security of those cold, strong arms. And Tarrant smiled inwardly; a secretive happiness, not to be shared. _Oh, my priest, what part of ‘genteel and seductive’ did you miss all those years ago?_ And he folded Damien deeper into his arms. There would be no letting go…


	11. Calm

**Calm**

            It happened gradually, but Gerald felt himself becoming closer to Jeri each time they met. It was strange at first, as he hadn’t been in friendly human company in some time. He felt as though he were going through the motions, sure every second that she would turn to him and ask what was wrong with him. But she never did. In fact, she had to be one of the most nonjudgmental people he had ever met. She attacked everything with curiosity, but did not scorn the subject when the results turned out not to her liking. If anything, that would turn out to further intrigue her and cause more serious inquiries. It made her an invaluable ally and confidante when he needed to speak of things he hated about his family that he had no one else in whom he could confide. And as he attempted to fall sleep on his stained mattress on this cool night, his mind drifted over a few times in the past two years that he considered significant to their relationship.

            He remembered the first time she had figured out to which family exactly he had been referring all these times. It had been about six weeks since their first encounter. They had been in a clearing in the woods, seated beside a massive new-oak tree. The remnants of honeysuckles scattered around them. “You’re a Tarrant? As in, _the_ Merentha Tarrants?” as if there were any others. And so he confirmed her inquiry without any real commentary, just a curt nod of his head. What had followed after had been a detailed discussion of his family’s horrors as she delved into each and every hidden nook and cranny of his soul. He could never find it in himself to tell her no. And so he spoke, hesitantly at first, but eventually he carried forth a continuous monotone narration of his short and eventful life.  Things he had heard about through his siblings’ rough teasing, things he had seen done to the serving staff or peasants, things done to him…  It was a lot to bring out all at once, and soon he was begging for a remission of the conversation, unable to keep up the façade of uncaring. She had looked at him squarely then, saying, “Well, I certainly don’t see how such awful people brought about such a person as you, Gerald. The picture you paint is…terrible, cruel even. I won’t ask about it again unless you first volunteer, alright? I think I’ve heard enough to form an outside opinion for now.” And she had moved on as if nothing had ever happened.

            He waited for a few minutes before responding to her change in topic, and interrupted her in mid-sentence of the next subject she had jumped upon. “How do you do that?” he asked her. “Do what?” came the reply. He stopped her from picking the grass beside her dress with a hand on her forearm. Mustering all the seriousness his 12 year old body could collect, he continued, “Speak to me as if I matter? Listen to me when I talk of silly things…and horrible things?” And his voice would have shook if he hadn’t lowered it to a whisper then, “Speak to me as if I’m a person; as if I’m _someone_ …” He trailed off while looking away from her, growing embarrassed of himself. Well, that hadn’t gone quite as smoothly as he had intended, but at least he hadn’t completely broken down.

            She dropped the sprigs of grass she had been handling and placed her hand on top of his, which brought his gaze back to her own, “You listen to me, Gerald. You _listen_ to me, and the rest of them be damned.” Her voice was low and filled with an edge she hadn’t displayed to him before. Her blue eyes were hard as stones. “You are brilliant. Even a plain peasant girl like me can see that. You are made for great things. And there is nothing they can do to take your intelligence away from you. Play their games for now if you must, but remember when you’re older that you are meant for better. You _are_.” And she had stared long and hard at him until he had nodded his acceptance and made a feeble agreement to her declaration. “Now,” she said as she pushed up from the ground and dusted off her traveling skirts, “What should I bring for our lunch next week?” And things went on after that as if they had never spoken of it.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

            Damien awoke with bleary eyes, his vision blurred and unfocused. His body was on fire. No, not fire, but burning with fever. He groaned aloud, which brought Gerald to attention beside him. The adept’s icy hand descended upon his brow like a gust of glacial wind. But to Damien, it felt entirely too wonderful at the moment in contrast to his febrile body. “You have been sleeping for two days, Damien,” came a soft voice. “I brought you here that first day, and you slept instantly. But you haven’t wakened since.” The voice paused for a second and a sound of movement could be heard. Then something touched the ex-priest’s lips. “Here, drink. Your body desperately needs fluid right now.” Damien could only manage a feeble, “Unghhhh,” before sipping what he could from the cup offered.

            _What is going on here?_ he thought. Or at least he tried to, so fuddled were his thought patterns. What came to the fore was more like a generalized sense of confusion. But then Gerald’s hand was back, and his voice was a strong constant for Damien to focus in on and draw strength from. “You will be fine, Vryce. Fine. You rest again, now. I can see this has taken much from you,” and though the adept’s voice held, inside Tarrant felt nothing like the surety he was attempting to display. And as Vryce slid back into his crafted dreamworld, Tarrant stood and began to pace. He stopped at one point to observe the ebb and flow of the dark fae within the room. All was as it should be, with the exception of the gathering dark surrounding Damien’s own form. So pale. He looked so pale there on the bed, contrasted by the deep purple-black of the night’s special fae.

            Tarrant began to pace again, his thoughts racing ahead of where other mortals would have faltered. _Unprecedented_. Yes. And so there was no security to be found in the past. What was happening here was unique to them. Their bond having been completed prior to Mt Shaitan and then their later intimacy must have a large part in this. And the more he thought on it, the more certain he became. Because Tarrant had witnessed an affliction of this like before. _Oh yes_ , he thought. _Perhaps it occurred more hastily back then, but it seems of the same fabric. The same warp and weave_. And then he shuddered, remembering the instance he was comparing Vryce’s predicament to. And he feared for his lover, for the transformation of his own undead existence had left scars upon his soul that reached deep, so deep, and still gave even one such as himself nightmares at times….  Looking once more at the ailing warrior’s frame hidden from sight under the coverlets, he wondered what dreams would come to him this night.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

            Another notable moment spent with Jeri was when he had finally decided he would confess to her his gift. It still gave him jitters just remembering the courage it had taken him to be able to admit to her that he was damned and cursed. Damned at 13! He had hoped fervently that she would look past the affliction, but he thought he owed it to her to let her know whom she consorted with. He dreaded what would ensue, but he knew he had to tell her at some point.

            “I’m going to show you something today,” he said as she made to get the basket off of her cart. She looked over her shoulder at him curiously, golden hair shining with the sunlight dancing across it. She would probably be fair to look upon if she ever took a notion to bother with those things. But she never did, and that was another reason Gerald found her so interesting. No other girls his age acted as she did around him. And as she went back to rummaging around in the hand cart, he went over to her and said, “No wait. Before you get unpacked, okay? I’ve got to show you this.” And something in the unease of his tone must have shown through, because she instantly stopped her digging and turned to him.

            “Gerald, what is it that’s gotten you all weird so sudden?” she asked in a slight tone of concern. “It’s not your family is it?” she quickly asked after, her eyes going wide with fear for him. They both knew what would happen to him if his family ever found that he derived any sort of pleasure from these outings. They thought him merely hiding somewhere in the keep grounds. Out of sight, out of mind. He shook his head in the negative, adjusting his tunic so as to not look her in the eye. “No, no, not them. It’s just something you need to know about me.” He looked up at her, a half-hidden pain behind his shining gray eyes, “Something bad.” All of his misgivings about telling her were rising to the surface now, and he was almost set to back down. Seeing this reticence, she rushed to reassure him with her words, but he stopped her. “No, Jeri. Just…just listen to me.” And he stood there trying to think of what to say. He had had an explanation prepared, but it had seemingly slipped his grasp at the concern that shone forth from her earnest eyes.

            An idea struck him then. He’d know later if it was the right one. Instead of words, he’d speak with action. “Not listen then. Here, I’ll _show_ you. Watch, Jeri.” And he held out his hands, palms upward, and gazed intently into them. His trepidation made it take longer than it normally would, but after a few moments, it began. Only a tiny gasp issued forth from her when the earth fae began to curl up and around his body, ending up within his palms as a shining green fire. He held it there, focusing on it alone, too scared to look at the disgust that surely must be present on her face. And then he was pulled out of his staring reverie by her hand on his arm. When had she gotten so close?! He looked upon her and waited for the condemnation to begin. She was staring intently at the flickering flames, entranced, paying him no heed whatsoever. Its light played across her features merrily.

            Gerald began to speak first but was quickly interrupted by her, with her voice in a low and passionate whisper. “Gerald, _this_ …this is… _beautiful_. How do you do it?” And her eyes looked from the fire and up into his, questing. He grasped for an adequate answer, fumbling at her lack of anger. “I just do. I’ve…always been able to; but I’ve had to hide it, because, you know…” he trailed off. She took a step back and a deep breath besides, looking down at her boots. Her hair fell over her shoulders in a shower of gold waves. When she spoke again, it was clearly straight from the heart and meant only for him. “What you’ve got there, Gerald, is _amazing_. You shouldn’t have to hide it at all. It’s wonderful even!” She brightened suddenly as if an idea had struck her. “Is there anything else you can do with it?”

            Her intense inquiry and curious nature had won over again. And Gerald laughed out loud as the tension drained out of him. He spent the next hour showing her exactly what he had been practicing at, and she absorbed it as a sponge does water. Beautiful imagery and lights played across the field for her. He moved objects hither and yon for her amusement. He even levitated her some from the ground, but had to set her down quickly after she realized that the view would afford him an excellent glimpse of her underthings if he so chose. He protested sorely at the thought, for in truth it had not even crossed his mind. And it was then that he knew he had truly found in her a friend. Not a fair-weather acquaintance, but a true friend. And there was no way he would ever let something as silly as physical things possibly complicate and ruin what they had, right here, right now. He wouldn’t trade this kind of companionship for anything. Ever.

            And as Gerald lay there reminiscing over these memories, he was struck by a strange feeling. It was odd. And unnerving. It was almost as though he was afraid of an unknown _something_. He didn’t have a name for this feeling other than a foreboding sense of ill. Like a child feels when they are about to peer under their dark bed. As if his happiness had set off a chain of events to begin that could not be halted. Would not be halted. And as he drifted off into slumber eventually, the thought of ‘calm before the storm’ floated across his consciousness.


	12. Darkness

**Darkness**

            Tarrant stood silently, nothing in the room moving. It was as if even the inanimate objects could sense the warring distress and delight within his soul. Darkness fought with light for supremacy in this somber space he had appointed for Damien’s sick bay. The adept’s lithe form was taut with tension at the implications his thoughts held. His suppositions were based solely on inference and gut feeling, but he knew…he _knew_. And he had no idea how to react to the revelation. How did it happen? And why? And then with an inward groan he thought of what the so-still form on the mattress would do when he understood, when he fully accepted and comprehended the depth of Tarrant’s innocent betrayal. He would need to find answers for the ex-priest before it came to that. And so he stood vigil, thinking, watching the changes as they took place in the case that he might be of errant judgment. Cataloging them as they occurred and filing away each new revelation that was made apparent. Again, he noted the stillness of the room; the stillness of the form on the bed beside him. Distantly he registered that a cold had pervaded this space. An unearthly chill that had no basis in natural phenomena. He hadn’t noticed before as his own body was of a similar temperature. Still, he waited, and watched. The figure on the bed was unmoving.  He had watched Damien’s chest for what seemed like an eternity now…and it, like the room, was still…

OOOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO

            Gerald approached their usual meeting spot with a gladdened heart on this cool Fall day. He had excellent news to share, though it was also to be saddening as well. He had recently been informed by his father that he was to be sent away to train with the warrior monks of Abbey Sircluth, which was most noted for its enormous library and simultaneous dedication to both the martial arts and the scientific. His father had finally realized that something had to be done with his 14 year old disappointment of a son, and Harrod thought that a little martial discipline would be just the thing. Perhaps a man might result from this regretful boy of his yet.  Especially since the monks were also extremely harsh in their training, to the point that not just a few initiates died during the first few months. All Gerald could focus on, though, was that he would finally be away from his family and all the evil and oppression they represented to him. His brothers had ceased their sexual assaults on him once he had turned about ten and wasn’t quite so effeminate in looks; though he was still a beautiful creature by any gender’s measure, a constant source of anger for his mother.

            His fortune was finally changing! Escape was at hand! And even if the route of escape was to be thoroughly covered in brambles and thorns, still he would persevere and reach the other side, cuts and all. He could remake himself in the abbey with no one there who would be privy to the cruelties he had had forced upon him here in this private hell. The downside to this approaching freedom was that he and Jeri wouldn’t see each other for what would probably be years. And this sat like a stone in his belly. How could he possibly enjoy his new place and good fortune without her smiling face and inquisitive nature there beside him? Not to mention her acerbic and sharp wit! He promised himself he would write her twice a week, but he still felt this would be exceedingly insufficient to show the devotion he felt to their friendship. He had no one else in all the world who cared for him.

            He didn’t have the answers, but maybe she would. And so he picked up his pace again as he rounded the bend into the little copse of trees where she would have their picnic set up. Only there was no blanket upon the ground. And no one else’s presence was in evidence. He looked at the sky. No, he wasn’t really early. Maybe she was late? It was an awfully long walk from her home to here. Still, he continued on past the clearing with its encircling greenery and peered through into the wooded path behind it that she generally approached from nowdays. He walked through the tree line, going from bright autumn light to cool dark abruptly so that his eyes had a moment of adjusting to do

            And there he saw the overturned cart. The scattered items for the market. The blanket with red upon it…  And then his eyes lit on Jasul a little ways up the path. He was standing over Jerilyn with a wicked grin on his face. Blood smeared his shirt and cheek. Part of one ear had been torn and red rivulets ran down from it. He looked up at Gerald and smiled even wider. “Your little bitch had some fight in her,” he said as he pointed at a barely cringing Jerilyn. Her face was bruised, and her clothing torn near off her frame. Gerald could barely breathe. He felt the cold stone in his stomach begin to burn hotly. It grew in proportion to his hatred for his family, and then exceeded it. He felt the call of the fae as he prepared to gather it to himself. Society be damned! He was going to show this bastard what pain really was!

            But then something clasped around his neck tightly. His hands reached up for it, but he was knocked on the side of his head hard enough to see light dance in his vision before he could investigate, and he fell to the ground with a dull cry. Simon stepped around him with a large rock in his hand. Incidentally, it was now a bit reddened with Gerald’s blood. The heir to Merentha sneered down at his defeated sibling as Gerald stared around himself in horror as if looking for something that was present only moments before. “Yes, brother dearest,” Simon purred. “We know of your ’talent’ and what you can do with it. Did you think you could keep this a secret?” And he laughed. Jasul took the cue to do so as well, though he was barely intelligent enough to discern the meaning of why he was supposed to laugh.

            “What’s the matter, bratling?” asked Simon when he had finished his mirth, “Can’t find your demon powers? Yes, father paid good money to have that contraption commissioned. It effectively neutralizes you so-called _adepts_ and makes you so much more receptive. _Safe_.” He was right! The fae was as if it had never existed to him! And Gerald felt the old fear building inside of him as it had used to when he was little. Helplessness. Desperation. He glanced at Jerilyn with her torn dress and bloody mouth. And now someone else was in danger, too!

            Simon saw his glance. “Mm, yes, I’ve had my fun with that one, but I don’t think Jasul was quite done, were you?” Realizing that he was suddenly the focus of everyone’s attention again, Jasul smiled and grabbed at Jerilyn, yanking her by the leg to drag her closer. “Stop it! Leave…!” Gerald tried to yell, but he was caught up in his eldest sibling’s vice grip suddenly, and then had cloth jammed in his mouth so hard he could barely dare to breath. Tears flooded his vision, and he moaned against the fabric.

            Simon looked around and then dragged Gerald over to a nearby tree. Of course this wasn’t difficult to accomplish with his full grown bulk against Gerald’s slim form. And soon Gerald was secured against the tree trunk by knotted twine. He struggled feebly for a moment and then stopped as Simon spoke again. “Do what you want with her, Jasul. I’ll be heading back now. Father will want me at his side for the trade delegation to arrive today.” And without further ado, he walked off as if he hadn’t just committed crimes against humanity and his own blood.

            Gerald looked anxiously toward Jasul, who promptly set to raping poor Jerilyn once more not even ten feet from where Gerald sat restrained. Her eyes stared straight into his the entire time. They did not plead, and neither did she. At one point he thought he saw her mouth the words “I’m sorry” to him, but such was the violence of her motion, he couldn’t be sure. Gerald wanted so badly to close his eyes and shut this out, but her own continued to seek his as the horrific act was carried out, and so he felt obligated to share in her pain. Perhaps his being aware helped her accept this in some way and get through it.

            Jasul tired of his play quickly, though, and threw her to the ground about a foot away from Gerald. She was covered in dirt, blood, and other remnants of violent acts. From the angle she had landed, he couldn’t see her face, and it was clear she was too weak and pained to turn over. Jasul was rummaging about in her cart. He threw out anything that didn’t please him over his shoulder. And after a short moment or two, he found what he sought, holding it up to the light for inspection. It was a bread knife, mostly dull by nature. He saw Gerald looking and gave him an almost shy smile. So tinglingly haunting and strange was that look.

            And before Gerald could register what was going to happen, Jasul took the few steps back to them in quick, powerful strides, grabbed Jerilyn up by the hair, and pressed the blade to her ribs. “She was a fairly pretty bitch, weren’t she?” he said as he plunged the dull knife through the left side of her mid ribs. He pushed her across Gerald’s lap, grunted, and left as abruptly as any of his other actions. He discarded the knife as he left, seeming to enjoy the run of blood along its silver length before dropping it to the ground. Jerilyn lay very still across Gerald’s legs, shallow breaths coming painfully.

            He struggled and screamed against his captivity, but there was no use. The collar had disconnected him from the fae somehow. Probably a variation of the ones worn by his family. He looked down as Jerilyn sluggishly rolled off of his legs and slowly dragged herself on the ground to the abandoned knife. Then, once settling it within her palm, she pulled herself back to him, reaching for the twine encircling him. Each movement seemed to take eons to complete. She could barely work her hands as they shook, but she got one line sawed through before collapsing against the rootwork and dirt at his feet.

            With this small gift of slack she had given, he was able to wriggle enough to create room to negotiate his way out of the restricting coils, and from there to her side. He was almost afraid to handle her. He gently rolled her off of her abdomen, and he sat at her head. A trickle of fresh blood ran from one corner of her mouth. The other side had dried blood from Jasul’s ear plastered across it, a macabre display of violent art. Her eyes were unfocused, but she said his name in a whisper.

            He leaned down to catch her words, and he attempted his own apologies, which ripped through his spirit. It was his fault. _His_ fault! This is what friendship earns! But through his turbid thoughts, he heard her faint whisper of, “Great things, Gerald.” Another slow and slightly burbling breath, and then, “Believe it.” And then her chest was still, and her eyes gave up the captured soul behind them as she slipped away into a place where he couldn’t yet follow. The horror of this day descended on him without mercy, clawing its way through his mind and heart with abandon. It sought who he was, and remade him into something else. Something harder. But for the time being, on the surface at least, he was just a boy who cried over the injustices of an uncaring world. Sobs that choked him wracked his thin frame, nauseating at the same time. _This is friendship_ , he thought. _Remember this_. He repeated it over and over in his mind.

            And when he finally regained control of his emotions, he gazed upon his first, and last, friend’s face. He brushed the dirt away from her eyes and straightened her hair. And he stared at her for some time, as if to set this memory over all the other happy ones they had together. His eyes dried. His limbs ceased their trembling. And his soul…his soul…it wreathed itself in death and hate. He closed his eyes and felt the cold wind of the coming winter blow across his tear-streaked and sweaty face. His golden brown hair slowly waving as it, too, was touched by the chill. And when he opened his eyes again, they were no longer the clear gray of a young and hopeful adolescent. They were the metallic silver of a sword’s edge. He looked down at Jerilyn once more, and then up at the path back to the keep. He reached up and touched the collar at his throat and felt a slight static tingle warn him away from it. Emotions, thoughts, and memories flooded and scrambled through his consciousness as he traveled slowly home. Friendship had gotten him this. It warred within his brain, tumbling through and around his venomous thoughts. And her voice was clear as his own within his mind, but eventually, one of them won out: ‘Play their games.’   **Murder**. ‘This is beautiful.’  **Pain**. ‘What you’ve got there is amazing.’  **Evil**. ‘You are made for great things.’..…  **Hate**. And darkness seemed to follow him as he pushed up and walked in the direction of Merentha castle. Truly, though it had never been recorded that the dark fae had been present during the light of the day, this day saw it forcefully pulled through the crust of the earth itself in each place where the young boy stepped. Dissipating almost the second the sunlight made contact, still it came upwards to feel his touch. And though he was supposedly prevented from accessing it, still it reached for him, creating his own darkness to travel through.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO

            Damien awoke screaming………..


	13. Push

**Push**

            Damien Vryce came awake with the clarity of a thunderclap. His eyes absorbed the details of the delicately carved and mural covered ceiling high above as they snapped open in an instant that seemed to him an eternity. New awareness blossomed across his DNA and brought him screaming into the waking world with a tenacious and full-throated roar. The covers lying over him entrapped him, and so he threw them back in the same movement that had him leaping over the foot railing of the bed. He landed as if he hadn’t just been deeply lost in a slumber like unto death, both feet underneath and one hand to the floor to steady himself. Looking up at his surroundings, his inner compass swirled.

            He spun at the sound of his name originating from behind and to the side. Tarrant. He took in the adept’s tall and graceful form for what felt like the first time. Details he never remembered noticing before leapt out at him fiercely. Indeed, it seemed that many things in this waking world were vying for his attention at the same time, and he felt inundated with the magnitude of it all. He grimaced and turned his head to the side as he stood to face the man in whose dreams he walked.

            “Damien,” came the soft entreaty. “Listen, and focus on me. You are feeling strangely, I imagine, and focus is what will keep you sane…for the time being.” Closer came the adept as he spoke, finally reaching a point just in front of the ex-priest. “How are you feeling? The fever that took you was something I’ve seen only once before.” Tarrant paused as if remembering. “It was…life-altering, as I recall.” And those silver eyes pierced his own for a moment, but he could say nothing as of yet. It was as though he had awoken to a new world, with new rules that he hadn’t learned nor adapted to yet. He struggled inwardly to find the words to convey his thoughts. And, finally, he settled for his usual blunt, and succinct, approach. “What happened to me? What **_is_** happening to me?”

            Seeing Tarrant’s expression flash into uncertainty was something new to him. Had he ever witnessed it before? So fast, it was there and gone. But he could perceive those nuances now, whereas before they were just minor facial movements, untrackable, unreadable. The mask had returned to Tarrant’s visage, though, and he was again the very definition of cool concern. “Damien,” Tarrant began, “the fae here in the Forest. Remember I warned you of it and what it could possibly do to a human soul? It may… I have no approach other than being forthright here.” He seemed to search for easier words at that moment. The adept’s eyes wandered for a minute before returning to his. An ice-cold hand reached out to his shoulder, or would have, except it wasn’t cold at all. Odd.

            “The fae may have begun something with you, Damien…or rather, it may have begun something…in you.” This caused the warrior’s eyes to flash in both consternation and anger as he twisted his shoulder out of the adept’s grip. He would not hear of these things. He was a man of the church, and his faith was such that it would shield him from this challenge. “No, Gerald. No. It is you who has changed. Don’t you see it? _Feel_ it?” His expression was one of almost panicked hope as he began to string together the changes he saw before him in an order most pleasing indeed. In fact, his mind seemed quicker now. Clearer. The details he had missed before, the facial expressions, the temperature of the man before him…it all led to the change he had wanted all along! Gerald. Closer to human. Closer to _Him_.

            But as he stood there gazing at Tarrant, he noticed other things, too. His heart, for one. It wasn’t exactly that it wasn’t beating, per se. It was more like it was beating _differently_. More slowly. He focused on it for a moment. _Much_ more slowly… And then he looked back at the adept, who stood with almost sad eyes directed his way. No. Not quite sad, although the sadness was present there was something else also. Something…like guilt. He studied the other man further, taking a few steps up to the Hunter, closing the distance that had prevented his next exploration.

            He reached out a hand slowly, tentatively, and touched the alabaster cheek of the adept’s striking features. No temperature difference. No biting cold. No shock running up his arm…and no frosted breath issuing forth from his own mouth…Oh!  He exhaled quickly, as though he had forgotten to breathe for a moment. And still…no frosting of the air occurred in his expirations. And so lost was he in his perusal that he almost didn’t notice when the other began speaking.

            Softly, seeming as if he were doing so only not to startle or frighten him, Tarrant said, “That was the most disconcerting part I found upon first awakening. Breath seems to be the very necessity of every life form. And so losing that habit often caught me unawares and left me gasping for air that I no longer required.  It took many years to fully lose the habit of it. And then, when re-entering the human world years later, I had to remember to let them see me breathe, or else they would know exactly what was sitting beside them in their Daes and Inns. It was as if the process had to be learned all over again.” The Hunter paused and gave Damien time to think this over. He seemed as still as he always had. Lifeless, undead. And yet, something was unmistakably different. “Do you understand the import of what I am telling you this for, Vryce?”

            It had been there, stirring his fear in the lower parts of his soul all along since his first moment of return. But he had attempted to cover it as best he could. Now, viewed from another perspective, his new observations had different meanings…more sinister than he could have ever imagined. If his heart hadn’t been beating so much more slowly, he would have thought it had stopped at these conclusions he was finally reaching. And it was a strange thing, this panic, when one hadn’t a need to breathe. The feeling of terror swallowing you up was present, but the accompanying gasps and heart-pounding moments were conspicuously absent. It made him nauseated. He hunched over a bit, looking at the ground and trying to find a steadying breath, except that he didn’t have one anymore. He wondered if he could even puke. The thought of being an undead being like a vampire had no part in his life. Ever. Period. It sickened him like nothing else ever could.

            A pair of arms fell across his shoulders and back as the adept came closer in an effort to comfort him. However, his body reacted with a rage he hadn’t known was present until just then. He flexed himself up to his full height, grabbed the Hunter by his waist and hurled him into the wall. Tarrant almost halted himself before making contact, but not quite. He still made an impressive crack as the wall smacked his backside, small pieces of masonry falling away from him and dust coating his shoulders.

            “What the hell have you done to me, you vulking bastard?!” Damien yelled as he looked around for something, anything, to take this anger out on, his hands clenched tightly. “What is this?! What am I?! What. Did. You. DO?!” he hollered at the adept. And damn it felt good! Gerald had pushed off of the wall and was staring at him with that look of patience. The one a master gives a student who is about to learn a lesson. And so the warrior paused in his tirade, rage fading slowly, but fading all the same. And he saw.

            He saw what he had ignored in his anger. Tarrant stood across the room from him now, standing where he had thrown him off to. Thrown him. _He_ …had thrown…Tarrant! _Oh my God in Heaven…no…_    He had just matched strength with the most feared being on Erna. His previous conclusions fell away from him. No mere vampire could ever rival the strength of the Hunter. And so he was not to be a vampire then. Not to spend his nights searching out his next warm meal of liquid. No. Something darker. _Something_ , he thought as he looked at Tarrant again standing as a mirror of his own soul now. _Evil._

            He fell to his knees, yelling for Tarrant to leave, and began to whisper prayers up to his God. The only being he thought could help him now. Would he even still hear the prayers of such a vile thing? He could only hope, and so he prostrated himself and continued, with tears streaming forth unabashed. Coherent thought no longer held a place in his mind so lost in his grief was he. And Tarrant took this opportunity to approach, carefully, and held a hand over the weeping man’s head. “Sleep, my priest,” he whispered, and the fae responded, surrounding the form of Damien and subduing his emotional turmoil. It took longer than expected, but eventually he was lost to the conscious realm once again.

            Tarrant placed him back on the bedding and arranged him in a somewhat orderly fashion. Satisfied with his work, he sat at the side of the bed and stared off into the ether. This was going to be hard. On both of them. Damien would no longer be able to subsist on mortal food alone, and getting him past this crazed point was going to be trouble enough, not even considering convincing him to feed in a manner that will go counter to his every belief and tenet. He sighed, inwardly and outwardly. It was a sound of total exhaustion and loss. And from this sound, a reply came from the doorway, “So, ah, how did it go?”

            Karril stood in the doorway, his well-fed form robed with the soft bath robes that he seemed to love so dearly. He motioned to Damien’s form, as if Tarrant wouldn’t have known of what he had spoken. And Tarrant smiled slightly, saying, “Ah, I could use some alternate conjecture here. Things didn’t occur quite as I had thought they would. Do come in.” And he stood to meet the Iezu. He actually was glad for the stout personage’s company, even if it only served as a distraction. “So, what did you find out was happening to him? He isn’t going crazy, or turning into a vampire or anything?” Karril asked as he entered. Of course he had been keeping tabs on them. The Hunter almost rolled his eyes at the very thought of the unobtrusive intrusions. He watched as Karril then approached the bed, recoiling as he came within feet of it. “What!” the demon exclaimed as the cold being exuded from the sleeping form assaulted him. “That feels…that… Gerald, that feels like _you_!” Tarrant looked on past the demon’s alarmed and questioning eyes as he said, “Yes, there is that.”

 


	14. Conjecture

**Conjecture**

            Karril looked at Tarrant in startled bewilderment, exclaiming, “How…how did… _this_ … The implications, Gerald! Think what this could mean!” And glancing back at Damien, he said, “To _him_!” His face replicated perfectly the human emotion of sorrowful horror as the Iezu quickly comprehended what such a momentous, and sinister, transformation would mean to a man like Damien Vryce. Words alone could not convey the magnitude of self-hate and loathing that would erupt from the erstwhile ex-priest. Motioning to the slumbering form, the demon spoke again, asking, “Is he…?” He trailed off and the adept spoke up.  “Asleep? Unconscious?” interjected Tarrant. Karril shook his head, “No. Safe. Is he _safe_?” Glancing at the dent in the stonework of the wall, and then at Gerald’s dust covered shoulders, he finished, “From himself.”

            “Ah,” sighed Tarrant. He sat back into an old leather armchair as if fatigued. “He cannot kill himself, if that is what you are inquiring after. At least, if the fae has modeled him after the patterning of my own transformation, as I suspect more and more, then that is true. When I was ‘reborn’ as I am now, the Unnamed worked into my essence and Contract the inability to end my own life through such mundane means as suicide. The only way to ever relieve myself of my earthly existence was to betray the Contract I had subscribed to. And since there is no Contract in place with Damien, it is my hope that this avenue of escape will be blocked to him from all angles.”

            Karril studied him a moment before commenting, “That is somewhat different than I had thought then. Someone could just as easily have run you through with a sword, though. And you would then die.” Tarrant chopped a hand down through the air. “But by the hands of another,” the adept corrected, “And not so _easily_ run through, Karril. Give me some credit. But yes, if I threw myself into battle, then it was likely I could be killed. And I am hoping this will not occur to Vryce with any speed. But then, he always was able to hide an agile mind behind that large frame of his. He may yet surprise us with his ingenuity.”  He said the last with a hand pulled down across his eyes, as if attempting to rub out the conjured image from his vision.

            The demon sat on the floor across from the adept, formed an illusory chalice of wine, and tipped it toward the other man in a gesture of offering. “You know I will never accept, Karril,” the weary adept whispered. Karril replied with a slight shrug and a smile, his graying hair framing his rounded features, “It’s for old times’ sake.” He took a chaste sip and smiled in satisfaction. Then he changed the topic back to the point of interest.

            “So what,” Karril asked, gesturing again to Vryce, “happened? I have guesses, but I’m sure they’re no better than what you’ve come up with on your own.” Tarrant leaned forward, resting his forearms along the tops of his thighs where he sat. His golden brown hair fell forward with him, obscuring his features somewhat in the low lighting. “I have asked myself many times what is happening to him. It plagues me that I cannot answer it definitively. Do you know… _Can_ you know how much this hurts, Karril? I have never been this vulnerable either in life or this parody thereafter. I was initially pleased to see the changes taking place within him. So much could be fixed. So much would be made simpler if Vryce were to change with the Forest’s will. With _my_ will.” The last was whispered. Karril looked at him, begging explanation of the last statement but keeping his silence.

            A sigh again from the adept. “When Damien began to first show signs of susceptibility…no, before even then, I warned him of the effects of the fae. Especially the fae permeating the Forest. But he was so, so, _him_. So stubborn and sure that his faith and will could conquer these intangible things.” He stopped and smiled one of his almost-smiles. “And also, I don’t think he wanted to leave me, for fear that I would revert, or become worse, than I ever was.” Tarrant hung his head a bit, speaking more softly. “And because he loves me. And desires that closeness that others have.” He looked up at the Iezu, eyes daring. “But I could not give that to him, Karril. Not as he was. It would only destroy him in the end when he discovered that I cannot change the ways of centuries.” He looked away then, feeling emotion warring within himself. “That I do not _want_ to change. But for him.”

            “And so I sought to spare him some of that. He began to change subtly, almost imperceptibly. Gestures were off by minute measurements. Sentences held different cadences. The dark fae clung near to him as it never does with normal beings. Things a mortal would not notice. But I did. And I knew that the fae in the Forest would darken his aspect. I had no idea how radical it would be, but at the time, I had thought to shape it toward my purpose. And so I manipulated events a bit. I made several illusions that were meant to open his mind more to violence. However, the fae worked its own illusions upon him.”

            Tarrant pushed back in the chair, shifting uncomfortably. “It lent him the sight to foresee violent acts. This is something that fades with distance from the Forest, but within it, I can see violent intentions as if they are happening. It is almost like a prescience, but seen only seconds before the event would take place. And it only shows possibilities or people’s wishes, not always what will actually occur. I know how to differentiate these, but Damien did not. And so he attacked the man in the courtyard who must have harbored some violent thoughts toward the Hunter. He also mentioned seeing and hearing his dead companion Senzei Reese, which I can only attribute to the manner of death. The Forest’s fae attracts violent images, and Mer Reese certainly died in the grips of violent death. I believe the fae was pulling these things from deep within Damien’s mind.”

            Karril rolled his hand in the air and then pointed back at the bed. “Yes, I can definitely see all that, but what about _this_ development. I mean, truly, he seems as you. No life. No death. But, _oh_ , I sense power in there. And it’s nothing pretty, Gerald.” Feeling the stress building, Tarrant stood and began to circle the room as he spoke. “I have merely conjecture and guesswork there, my friend. But as I guess it, the fae here in the Forest began to pattern him this way after my dream-memories began to share between us. In essence, those memories become his, too. And what are we all, except our collective experiences?” He glanced at the warrior on the mattress, taking in the lack of life signs once again. “By taking in memories from myself, he has, in essence, absorbed part of my own soul. The Forest seeks to equilibrate the evil I have unintentionally placed inside him. And the fae has taken the easiest pathway for his transition into darkness, reforging him with a template of the Hunter. Oh, he won’t end up as a copy of myself, but there will be enough of my essence within him that his former goodness might drown.”

            “As I said before, I had thought it would be a good thing for him to adjust somewhat to the reality of our situation. This thing we have between us will suffer and die without one of us adjusting his moral compass. And it will not be me, with my centuries of experience. And so it must be him. It’s just too complicated otherwise, and he would only end up the worse for it.” Tarrant stopped circling, looking at the ex-priest with a flicker of despair and lost hope on his countenance. There, and then gone. And replacing it was look of curiosity and shared sadness. Difficult to discern, but there all the same for those who knew how to look. “And now, I fear that this may destroy him in a worse way than I ever could have with my violent tendencies alone. I will try to sedate him for the next few days as the transformation settles.” His eyes roamed over to the Iezu, who looked on solemnly as he finished with, “This will test his faith in ways no man should ever be asked.”   

 

 


	15. Somnolence

**Somnolence**

            His road back to the keep was long and laden with heavy thoughts. A storm had swept in out of nowhere as he had exited the wooded area. Had he been of a mind to notice, he might have perceived the outlying nature of this storm as being unnatural as fish on land. Power crackled about its edges; and it seemed it rained only where he was traveling, as if it had been drawn to the violence of his thoughts… But he noticed none of this. And as he moved on, his thoughts became more cohesive and higher level. The storm dissipated soon after. Sodden boots squelched through the mud and water left in the wake of the short, yet brutal squall. The turbid liquid filled gaps and cracks in the road just as the darkness did the same within his heart. He had traveled on through it all. Soaked and cold, he pressed forward, beyond things as mundane as physical sensation. After all, he’d suffered worse deprivations than this a thousand times over at _their_ hands. Nature’s fury was at least nonselective in its destruction. Theirs was an evil of a purposeful nature. And he returned to them now…but only for the present. The future remained open, unset. And he would see to it that freedom from their sadistic intentions would be his in the end, no matter the means.

            The couple hour trek had been lengthened by the storm’s violence, but he returned to Tarrant Keep eventually, to the notice and care of no one. It was late afternoon, almost evening. He entered his family’s home cold, in every sense of the word. Water ran off of him onto the carpeting that was softer than the straw mat they had allotted him lately for sleeping. About a year ago, Harrod Tarrant had placed him in the care of Jasul, feeling that the older boy would do well to see how managing another’s time was best handled. And so Jasul controlled his free time, his schooling, and even his rooming assignment. This had ended with Gerald sleeping in a kind of empty closet at the end of his former room’s wing. He was given some straw with which to make his bedding and an old cast off blanket. Besides this, he had no other possessions. Gerald made no protestations at his treatment. It would do nothing other than anger his father that he wasn’t man enough to handle rough situations, he was sure. And so he endured. And he told Jerilyn, as he had told her everything. No more…

            He almost broke then, at the thought of her. But no. Jerilyn deserved better than simple tears over her murder. He would learn from her and honor her by never again opening himself to another. It only hurt them, and in reciprocation, himself. As he stood there on the entry carpet, soaking through the soft fabric, he noted within himself a feeling that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps, it had been, but only as a shadow, a whisper. He couldn’t name it, but it was there nonetheless. And of one other thing he was sure. It was growing. Every time he swallowed the horrors handed him by his family, it grew. He had become quite proficient at drowning his anger only to hide it deep within himself. Time would see what this feeling turned out.

            He turned toward the wing his father resided in during the days. He should still be present at this late daylight hour. The space was possessed of many different receiving rooms that were prepared and set out for just about any kind of delegation that could seek an audience, be they scholars, business-folk, or royalty. The apartments adjoining these rooms were lavish and furnished for maximum comfort in between meetings. It wouldn’t do for the Baron to go without his comforts while awaiting guests to arrive. Approaching the outer reaches, he heard strange noises issuing forth from behind the gilded sliding doors he looked upon. A kind of thudding, with scratching noises of cloth. He knew he wouldn’t find a warm reception no matter when he presented himself as returned, so he didn’t announce himself or follow any courtesies. He merely slid the door aside and passed through.

            He took in several things at once when he fully entered. His father stood behind his mother with a flushed face that told of massive amounts of alcohol having been consumed. Trousers hung to his knees. His mother’s skirts were pushed up over her head as she was bent forward over the furniture, but he would know that raven hair and snow pale skin anywhere. Even after several children, one could still see how small and delicate a beauty she had been in her youth. His father continued his invigorated pumping from behind and underneath her skirts, a handful of her hair twisted in his fist. Her face was barely visible, but it was clear that the hours of makeup and hair preparation had been unnecessary today as the myriad blushes and powders ran down her face in sweat and tears.

            The Baron finished with a final grunt and pushed her without ceremony the rest of the way over the armchair, where she tumbled over in a heap, panting and disheveled. Still not noticing Gerald, Harrod turned to his right and said to Simon, whom Gerald was now made aware of as well, “That’s how you father a litter of sons, boy. Don’t take ‘em lady-like in the bed and romance them with wine and flowers; just bend the bitch over and use her for what she’s made for!” And he laughed so hard at his own comment that he began to cough. Simon smiled, but did not laugh, although he also did not at all seem to feel out of place either.

            Gerald stood wide eyed at the crude comportment. Surely he had known that his family was oddly behaved, but he had never figured that anyone other than he was used in such a manner. And instead of causing feelings of empathy and shared suffering for his mother, though, this only made him hate her the more. That she could suffer the same kind of abuse and yet took it out on him whenever time or opportunity permitted! There was almost nothing worse that had been done to him than this kind of betrayal. That someone so similarly maltreated should seek to pass on the abuse. It sickened him in new and inventive ways.

            He did not have long to be thinking of this, though, for it was then that they noticed him, and he did well to keep his expression blank. Harrod saw him first, “Well, look here, Simon. A competitor!” He motioned sloppily for Gerald to approach. Gerald did not come any closer, but replied, confused and wanting nothing more than to retreat, “I am here to state my return to the keep, father. And I will go to my schoolwork now.” He began to back out as Lady Argenine stood, her dark hair hanging in wild disarray around her shoulders, makeup forming stained trails down her cheeks. The look she shot at Gerald was a killing one, and she shoved him out of the way and into the wall as she made her escape from the room. The Baron watched all of this through a drunken haze, then smiled and turned back to Simon. “Ah well, son, you’ll have to wait another day for a second turn then. Or was it third? No matter. And Gerald,” he said, swaying and now facing the teenage boy, “You should have a lesson or two in fathering sons as well. You may not have the physicality of a warrior, but I’ve heard that you excel in scholarship, and the Tarrant line should never be left wanting for those with knowledge to serve them. Don’t worry, I’ll find a use for your pathetic frame yet, boy.”

            Harrod continued to speak of the Tarrant line and its finest bred warriors as Simon nodded and smiled in agreement, and Gerald took the cue to sneak away. Harrod was facing Simon, who had gone over to fill up with more brandy. He dashed down the hallway and back to his little closet. He sat in the darkened space and attempted to clear his head of the disgusting images of his father and brother engaging together with his mother. Though he hated her deeply, it gave him no satisfaction to think of her virtual rape. He needed to be free of this place! He had only a little while yet before he would be sent to the Abbey, and he felt every minute acutely as he passed through the days as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. He wanted to be sure he in no way caused offense that would prevent him from leaving to his new chance at life. He could totally remake himself there, where no one knew him!

            Daydreaming only lasted for so long before hunger crept in again. As he lived on the verge of near-starvation, it was a constant companion. He peeked out of his nook, and then hurried down the hallway to his first hiding place for such times as this. It was located in his mother’s parlor. Well, one of them anyway. Her second one that she received unimportant guests in. Rarely used, it was perfect. None of the other boys had ever made it a habit to play in here when smaller, so he had been using it as a depository for a good many years. But as he entered it this day, something was different in the air. Holding still just a few feet through the door, he listened. And then heard a shifting sound, and a sniffle. Oh no…

            Craning his neck to see around a silk hanging partition, he observed his mother lying reclined on a sofa, crying and in a terrible state to behold. Fear shot through him at the thought of her discovering his presence. Thoughts of nourishment dissipated. He would find no food or welcome here; and so he backed away slowly. Not quietly enough, though, for his foot caught on a corner of the rug and caused him to stumble. The crying stopped abruptly. He turned his head from where he had landed and saw Lady Argenine staring wide-eyed at him. And then those eyes narrowed in a scowl so like his own. “What are _you_ doing here, filth?” she whispered savagely. She pushed herself roughly to her feet, viciousness shining through her eyes. “Get out!” she yelled, but instead of withdrawing from him, she began coming toward him. He attempted to back away but tripped over the same piece of carpeting that had alerted her to his presence in the first place.

            And at this sign of weakness, she was on him, beating him with her fists. And though he was in his fourteenth year, still he was underfed, undersized, and taken entirely in surprise by her ferocious manner. He threw his arms over his head, tucked, rolled, and tried to crawl away, but this served to only further enrage her. Her eyes darted to and fro, searching for a new way to commit violence. She palmed an ornate crystal statue of a serpent entwined about a cruciform figure. The meaning of which was lost in history, but those able to purchase such things thought it a novelty.

            She struck out once, twice with it; leaving a bloody gash along his left cheekbone that burned as though it had been placed there by the Gods of old. Weeks later, when it finally healed, his fingers would trace the path where it used to reside, and he would feel again the bite of that serpent. His blood fell to the floor, patterning the stones and carpet alike with spotted crimson. Her delicate frame not being meant for such exertion, she finally dropped her chosen weapon, gritted her teeth, and said, “Get. Out. Of. My. Sight!” And counting himself lucky for it, Gerald fled his mother’s rage with all the speed his gangly frame could muster. Thoughts of sustenance had quit him, and he returned to his closet in weary disbelief at the day’s occurrences. Still, other than the blow to his cheek, which he bandaged quickly, he had come out relatively unscathed. Bruised for sure, but nothing major. And so, with nothing else for it, he decided he should sleep for an hour or so now, while he could, since he hadn’t really rested since two nights before his meeting with Jerilyn. Jasul would probably be about later and have all manner of unpleasant duties to fill his evening time, ready to taunt and gloat over the murder done earlier.

            And so he slept. But Jasul never came for him. And rare though it was, it did happen from time to time that the cruel older boy would find a more interesting target for his attention. Perhaps he hadn’t learned of Gerald’s return yet. Whatever the reason, when Gerald awoke, it was darkening into evening. Peeking out of his cubby, he could see the staff still bustling about. He closed the door. Better to wait another hour or two before venturing out again. He pulled out a book and attempted to create a globe of light. Pain shot through his head as he almost made contact with the earth fae. That damn fae-collar. He had forgotten its presence. Sighing at his new misfortune, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

            His body apparently agreed with this choice as it gave in to the combined emotional and physical exhaustion of the day, and he was soon breathing deeply in the realm of dreams. The unopened book lay across his chest. He lay in repose like this for almost two hours, driving deeper and deeper into his subconscious mind as he slumbered. Outside, the pathways and keep walkways dimmed as one of the most dangerous time periods on Erna approached stealthily. People began moving indoors who hadn’t already. And after another 20 minutes or so, the entire outer walls of the keep descended into true night. It was a time when all stayed inside and waited for the worst that the dark fae had to offer to pass them by. Tonight’s darkness had been projected to last for almost an hour, and so most people had found activities to occupy their time as this dangerous occurrence passed them by.

            Gerald’s eyes snapped open as soon as the blackness covered the outside of the keep in its entirety. He gazed strangely at the ceiling and walls of his cramped compartment and shifted so as to stand. He did so awkwardly, as if still sleeping. He stared at the door latch for a moment, reaching out slowly to grasp it, his motions speeding up as he continued. He left his meager living space behind and returned to his mother’s apportioned apartments. He could just hear her humming through the door, apparently having gotten over her own grief at having been the cause of his own.

            He stood in the shadows outside of her doorway, almost as if he was lost. Then his eyes closed. Stillness reigned. Dust motes swirled in the ribbon of light leaking from under the door. It appeared slowly, almost undetectable, but as more and more coalesced it gathered together into form and substance. And the dark fae began to curl around him. This should have been strange to him since the collar he wore was supposed to prevent adepts from manipulating this almost magical organic substance, but it didn’t cause him the least bit of worry. His trancelike state was complete, and so thoughts of strangeness, failure, or even of success, meant nothing to him. The fae continued to worm its way around and across him, affixing to him like a second skin for a moment before sinuously flowing off of him and under the door.

            Minutes passed, and then Lady Argenine appeared, coming through the door as if on an important errand. She walked right past Gerald as though she herself were just as unaware of the world. His eyes slid slowly open as she passed his position, and he stepped out to follow her. But the shadows of the alcove clung to him, obscuring him from the view of others. And so he followed unseen, from corner to corner, shadow to shadow, as she passed out of the main entrance and into the courtyard, striding purposefully. No one was present in the main foyer to see her leave as everyone had retreated as far into the keep as possible for the passing of true night.

            She left the large entryway doors ajar, and Gerald slid between them silent as a ghost. Only through his special adept’s vision was he able to pierce the absolute gloom of true night. He could hear a voice. She seemed to be talking to herself, and as he drew closer, he confirmed that she was. She twirled in the night, proclaiming to herself, “Oh, isn’t this springtime weather gorgeous!” She looked over in the direction of the fountain, “And the waters, how they sparkle in the sun.” Gerald watched all of this with no interest or disinterest evident. But he did note a shadowy form taking root at the side of the fountain where Argenine was headed, and its malignant nature was immediately recognizable to him. He stepped a few paces closer as if to better examine this being brought forth from the night.

            Lady Argenine sat daintily down on the edge of the fountain, within feet of the shadowy figure that was solidifying as each second passed. Human-like in appearance, it was tall and pale, but its features were still obscured as it fleshed out. Gerald drew closer still, his unconscious mind drawn to the potential violence held within this predator. There was no fear or caution in him at all, just a detached curiosity.

            Finally, the creature completed its transition from the insubstantial to substantial. Gerald’s mind distantly recognized it from his studies. _Vampire_ , the word floated through and out of his mind, echoing down its lonely corridors. And as he looked on, the creature’s interest in Lady Argenine became almost palpable as its entire focus seemed to shift to her. It approached from behind, and she ceased her endless chatter, suddenly going as senseless as Gerald seemed. She stared into space as the thing came behind her and slid its arms around her waist and shoulders. It tilted her neck almost gently to the side. And it paused as if sensing something.

            Its eyes searched until they locked on Gerald, who remained numb to the goings on in front of him. It watched him for a moment, and then almost smiled as it lowered its mouth to her neckline, baring pointed canines as it did. They sank deep into her neck, causing just the slightest of gasps to issue forth from her. And then she went limp in its arms. After barely a few seconds, the thing’s hunger turned ravenous and it tore her throat fully open, hungrily gulping at the now gushing liquid, the source of which emptied quickly indeed.

            No remorse was shown, nor respect for the deceased. It simply dropped her where it had taken her, and then it fled into the night. Those eyes hung suspended in his mind for a while longer after it had gone, though. Gerald looked on at the bloodied scene before him. He was barely twenty paces from his mother’s rapidly cooling form, wrapped in shadows and dreams, and all he did was turn away and return to the doors. He laid back down on his straw in the closet, eyes awake but unseeing. And outside, just a short while later, the utter blackness of true night lifted, and Erna returned to its semi-safe state. Gerald’s eyes slid closed then, and he dreamed what passed for normal in his world.

            He awakened to find himself much refreshed. He stretched and began to recall his dreams. Though they were fading rapidly, some pieces remained. Something to do with the fae…he had seen the fountain, and someone had been there. Who? No, not who, but what? How strange. He also thought he remembered his mother wearing lipstick that was too bright red a color against her pale skin. He had wished that she would just disappear, and she did. Just like that. He sighed. That would never happen. May as well get up and find out what this day’s misery would be. And then he cocked his head to one side, feeling as if he was hearing a distant sound that was off-key from the usual bustle of the keep’s morning system. And then the screams reached his ears….

 


	16. Slowly

**Slowly**

            Tarrant sat beside Damien as he had for the last few days watching his still form. It was unnerving seeing Vryce like this, even for him. Lifeless, unmoving, unbreathing. Not so very long ago, he would have quite enjoyed it, reveled in it even. Now, with regard to the myriad developments they had undergone, it was still a victory of a sort, albeit a bittersweet one. But how would he ever gain Vryce’s trust and cooperation after this? How could he force his acceptance of this new reality? It wasn’t exactly the fault of the Hunter after all. The fae had initiated the changes. Tarrant had merely seen no reason to halt them. If Vryce had been any less than he was, he would have been easily turned to the darkness, and this could be the beginning of a great partnership; and that was discounting their evolving feelings for each other. But, the ex-priest had never been that weak-minded or willed. And Tarrant wouldn’t be half so attracted if this weren’t the case. And so it was both a blessing and a curse that Damien was so, so…. _himself_.

            The adept sighed deeply and held his hand out over the ex-priest’s chest. It hovered there for a moment, as if uncertain. And then he lowered it to the stationary muscles and slid his hand across the firm skin and onto the upper abdomen. So strange, to feel him like this. Was this how _he_ had always felt to the living? As far as he knew, there had never been another being like himself, and so there was nothing to base a comparison off of. He didn’t often think of how his own body felt. To him, his unliving changes felt normal. But feeling Vryce like this brought a whole new level of understanding to just how much one changed when entering this unlife.

            He watched as the dark fae swirled around the other man. Something was still changing. He felt it, though he didn’t comprehend it fully. Why else would the fae remain interested in one who was not an adept or practicing sorcerer? And in this new Erna where the fae did not respond to humans as it once had, it made this interaction he was witnessing increasingly odd. It seemed that since the second Sacrifice, mere sorcerers and dabblers in the fae were now restricted from its use. It no longer responded to any excepting those born as adepts. And knowing this planet’s history of adaptability, there would probably be fewer and fewer adepts born into future generations now that they were no longer necessary for human survival. A dying breed. The beliefs of the masses still held effect with the fae, however, as demonstrated by the increasing popularity of the Church of Unification. Without the comforting access to the fae, many were turning to the religion as a means of coping and seeking meaning again.

            Truly, he should have felt at the pinnacle of his life. Happiness should know no bounds within his heart and soul upon seeing his finest creation achieve its ultimate goal. But as he sat there staring down at this man whom he had come to love, he almost balked at the price it may still cost him for this success. Waking Damien again was something he dreaded, especially after the initial reaction of violence he had displayed. But it would happen, and soon it would become necessary in order to feed him. If he waited too long, then Damien would suffer the effects of the change as _he_ had those centuries ago; animal-like, bestial, mindless almost in the pursuit of blood and suffering. He did not wish any of that upon Damien, much as it would have pleased him to witness it 3 years earlier. What a contrasting puzzle his world had become since the introduction of this man, he mused.

            As he pondered this and other things, he remembered a conversation held with Karril the other night. He hadn’t yet discerned an effective means of safely turning Vryce to more suit his tastes, but he had an as yet undeveloped beginning of a plan to take him there. “Are you sure about this?” Karril had asked. “Just promise to act when I need you. There needn’t be any explanations of my reasoning,” the adept had said coldly. Karril had smirked and replied, “Oh, I know exactly why you’re thinking of this. I simply wished to know that you have thought about how many ways this is going to backfire when you pull it off.”

            Tarrant came out of his reverie with annoyance. How dare Karril assume that he knew better how to accomplish the subverting of others. Hadn’t he proved through the centuries that the Hunter was a master at this very thing? Of course, those before had always already been inclined to the more dark side of human nature to begin with. And none of them had half of Damien’s mettle. The cold under his fingertips brought him back to reality again. Cold, so like himself.  “Hmmm…I wonder,” he whispered as he stretched out his hand over Damien’s face.

            Tarrant closed his eyes and let his awareness sink into Damien’s body. Though true healing had been denied him in his years as an entity of the Unnamed, he still had an agile mind and the experience of being an adept to assist him in accomplishing the standard Healer’s trance and Melding to facilitate his exploration. _If the fae is modeling him after myself, then how far exactly will it persist with these changes?_  He searched through Damien’s corporeal form, every cell and vessel examined for the specific change he was looking for. _The fae has such an affinity for him right now. It encircles him always nowdays._ He thought of this as he searched. _I remember…_ and he thought fiercely of when he had discovered his own affinity for the darker things; after Jerilyn had been murdered. He could recall the days after. The strange occurrences. The death of his mother. The way that, after the Core set, the dark fae seemed to always be surrounding him, following him, encircling him…  _There!_

            He had found what he searched for. It wasn’t based in Damien’s corporeal form, though. It was more attached to his life force, or rather, his _un_ life force now. His spirit. It looked different from how it used to. Not in a bad way. And not in any way that drew particular attention to itself. No. It seemed almost…like something very familiar… It was as yet unfinished, and so Gerald felt as though he was viewing a painting only half completed. The picture was imperfect, and therefore, inconceivable. He pulled back into his own body, eyes remaining closed. He became introspective, perusing his own undead life force within. From a cursory inspection, there was not much to notice. But Gerald Tarrant was not one to give a _cursory_ inspection to anything he studied. And so he looked closer, and there it was. Shock had his eyes fly open to stare in wonder at the man beside him on the bed.

            His mind was running in circles at his discovery. _How can this be? There has never been a case like this!_ His mind reeled at the implications and possibilities…and the danger…  “If Senzei Reese were alive today…” he began. And then he laughed out loud. Not quite a mirthful sound, but kind of a panicked hiccup of an outburst. But he calmed himself soon enough. He said out loud, “Getting ahead of yourself aren’t you? So sure of this? Hmm… Let’s be sure…” And so he entered Vryce on an insubstantial level again.

            He went straightaway to the source of his query. He observed for a minute or so, and then enacted a Possession. Vryce’s eyes, which were his for now, opened to survey the room. It was disorienting seeing himself seated nearby, so he looked away. The far wall was lost in shadows, but there was a small table closer to them. Choosing an innocuous object on the table, he focused on it. Nothing happened for but a second…and then the lamp shattered. And so did his illusions about still having his adepthood over Vryce. He quickly fled the other man’s body and slammed back into his own as a cold trickle of fear began to build somewhere in his heart. This man, this once mortal man, whom he loved, may actually have the ability to destroy him it seemed. Unless Vryce himself had been an adept, the Possession should have done nothing more than allow Tarrant to control the ex-priest’s body. But Vryce wasn’t an adept; at least, he hadn’t been…but the shattered lamp across the room told another story. Possessions only allowed the Possessor to utilize those abilities which the Possessed had inherently. Therefore, adepts couldn’t Work through a nongifted individual. And yet, Tarrant just had done that very thing…

            The adept watched the fae play along the contours of Damien’s face. _How long until I have to wake him?_ he wondered, trying to remember what it had been like for him all those years ago. He shuddered. Perhaps he should simply remove the sedation slowly, so that Vryce would still be sluggish as he awakened. Yes. That would give him time to explain a few things and hopefully calm the other man enough to get him under control. He looked at the lamp again, or what was left of it. Bring him out _very_ slowly, he corrected himself. Turning again to face Vryce, he braced himself and began letting the sedation Working slip away. Slowly…


	17. Shiver

**Shiver**

Damien dreams:

          Gerald arrived at Abbey Sircluth not even one month following the events of that bloody morning. His mother’s murder was passing strange to him. He felt no real emotion one way or the other. All he had was a vague recollection of his strange dreams leading up to the event. No one could explain why she had been outside during true night. And until now, no one had realized that the amulets of the nobles and wealthy could be failing. Or at least it appeared that way. She _had_ been wearing hers at the time. It was found beside her body, having been torn away. They were created as a protection against the more mundane aspects of the fae, though. And protected the wearer from sorcerous attacks utilizing the earth fae. Apparently, their guard against the dark fae was faltering.  

           But beyond his emotionlessness toward his mother’s death, he felt the complete opposite upon his trip and arrival to the Abbey. His salvation, he felt, was at hand. Free of his family’s debauchery and abuse, here he could remake himself entirely. He can learn as he has felt he always should. The monks of the Abbey worked hard, trained hard, and exhibited this in their vast knowledge and comprehension of many wide and varied topics. Some of the most popular theoretical studies originated from Sircluth. Even the king himself would visit there from time to time, such being the fame and renown of the library. Gerald’s heart swelled to bursting despite the blackness that had followed him daily throughout his life. _Fourteen is not so old that I cannot still become a competent scholar_ , he thought to himself. _And a competent adept sorcerer_ , whispered through the far reaches of his mind. For truly, here he would be allowed to study whatever he wished, as long as he participated in the core courses and physical training. They valued knowledge for its own sake here and made no distinction of good and evil, proper and improper.

          The cell he was given was sparse, but when compared to his broom closet it was grand. A real bed, though small, rested in one corner. A few paces away was a wobbly writing desk of indistinct construction. A table and lamp sat beside the door, and a small bookshelf occupied another corner. He couldn’t wait to get started. Of course, since he had arrived so late this day, he had been sent straight to his room and would not begin until the morrow. Also, he thought worriedly, the first part of his training was to be physical. Three months of introductory martial training occupied the class schedule for every newcomer. From there, depending on the end goals of the student, the classes would either be scaled back to allow a more scholarly course of study, or they would be increased to that of a warrior’s courses. Nevertheless, whichever path one chose, martial training would be a constant throughout the learning process. The monk brothers here believed a fit body led to a fit mind. And so Gerald would still be required to spend a daily allotment of time on physical pursuits no matter what. He didn’t mind, though, because he truly welcomed the chance to learn how to defend himself. Though he worried that they would find nothing about his scrawny frame to train.

          He awoke the next morning full of excitement and barely tasted the breakfast served in the mess hall. His guide, a dark-skinned fellow announced as Brother Droguir, brought him to the training grounds to begin soon afterwards. Surprised, he found himself nearly alone in the yard. There were but four other students to be seen. Brother Droguir noticed his puzzlement and said, “There have been fewer and fewer lads sent our way each year. And it is especially bad now that the Fae War is on. His Highness has most of the young folk fighting.” Gerald nodded at this explanation. Being from a noble family, he had never been expected to join the military forces of the King’s Own. Some of his brothers had done so at the command of his father, true, but they would not have had to go under normal circumstances.

           His meeting with the Brother who was to be his teacher and mentor, a tall and burly man with a gruff seeming attitude, did not go well at all. This man, Brother Ranyak, seemed little inclined to make acquaintances. Instead, he told Gerald that he looked pathetic and then proceeded to run him through a series of trials that left Gerald breathless and trembling. An assessment of his skills at weaponry, agility, and endurance easily revealed his lack of genetically inherited strength after the day was almost done. Shadows stretched long across the training yard. He was told to take a short break afterwards. Gerald looked like nothing so much as a pale, scrawny teenager who sat on an overturned bucket, thoroughly disillusioned with himself because of his pitiful performance.

          Brother Ranyak approached him after a while, saying, “We’re not through yet, so don’t get comfortable. You still have one more physical skill assessment to complete this day: Evasion.” The look in the Brother’s eyes was unreadable. The steady gaze bored into young Gerald and began to make him uncomfortable. Feeling utterly spent already, he asked what the next test required. “Why, we are going to assess your tactical evasion skills.  And we can’t do that here. The best terrain for this exercise lies just outside the monastery,” the Brother replied, voice steady and curiously devoid of emotion on the last sentence. “The forest?” asked Gerald. The large man nodded impatiently and gestured toward the great entrance gates. “Yes, so get going. You’ve got 10 minutes to get your bearings and develop a plan before I head in after you,” informed the Brother. “The clock starts…now.” 

          Gerald trotted out of the main gate and entered the fringe of the forest within minutes, desperate not to fail tremendously in this last test _._ He observed his surroundings with an unpracticed eye. _Not too thick here, so not good for cover_ , he thought as he headed deeper into the greenery. _Perhaps if I just head straight, I will be able to keep ahead of him._   Otherwise, he would have to hide, and that meant possibly being found if he wasn’t good enough at concealing himself.  Reviewing this day’s performance, he decided not to try any more unfamiliar skills. He reached up and touched the collar at his neck, wishing he had access to the fae to assist him here. It would have been so easy then. He also wondered how long he was supposed to participate in this test. After 10 minutes of alternating walking and jogging, Gerald’s reserve was spent, and he just walked. He was far too tired to do any more than that after having already completed more physical training in one day than he had ever before been forced to. _Just keep going_ , he thought. Glancing at the sky, he noted it was almost twilight. _More difficult for him to see me at least._ Then, as he walked head first into a branch, he thought, _More difficult for me to see, too_.

         Night fell, and still he trudged on. _I should probably turn around now, the test has to be considered over, right?_ Turning around, he headed back in the general direction of the Abbey. Very soon, however, he realized that he had seen a certain rock formation on the forest floor before, and it wasn’t very far in to the woods where he had seen it _. I’ve circled around!_ he thought, panicking. Then he soothed his frazzled nerves. No one had caught him yet, so he might have just been lucky enough to circle in the opposite direction of Brother Ranyak. He continued on.  By his estimation, he should be about a 15 minute jog from the main gate. His spirits lifted. _At least I did well in this_ one _test!_  

          Then, he tripped, falling face first onto the forest’s leaf covered grassy carpet _. Great. Some skilled warrior I am,_ he thought to himself.But amidst his self-criticism, he realized that what he had tripped over was man-made. A wire! Looking fearfully all around, his fright filled mind couldn’t make out any telling details in the dark. He lay there on his stomach for another few seconds just listening. Nothing. Sighing at himself and his imagination, he began to push up off of the half-decayed leaves and received a kick in his left side for his troubles. “Found you,” Brother Ranyak whispered into Gerald’s ear while crouching over him. Still half blinded by the pain in his kidney, Gerald felt disappointment well inside himself, but it quickly turned to fear as he felt his hands being bound. “What are you doing?!” he cried out. No answer from the older man. He repeated himself over and over with the same result of cold silence.

          He was dragged over to a strange series of short posts sticking up out of the forest floor. The Brother stopped dragging him, made sure he was rolled all the way onto his belly, and then secured his wrists to the one of the short, grounded posts. Each leg was given its own post which left them spread perhaps two feet apart. Pleas going unanswered, Gerald remained silent for a while. Perhaps being left overnight in the forest was punishment for such poor performances as he had displayed today? The monks were known for their strict discipline and eccentric punishments. That’s what it had to be! It was not unheard of for young men in training to have peculiar penalties, such as standing at attention for hours on end, not allowed to speak. The silent treatment must be related to this, too. His mind calmed somewhat when he came to these conclusions, and his breathing steadied.

          To his consternation, though, the Brother then cut his shirt off. Pale skin that appeared luminescent in the moonlight was exposed to the night chill. _So I’m to freeze in punishment, too?_ he thought. But then rough hands grabbed the waist of his trousers, cut the belt, and yanked them down. _NO!_ he thought, and he heard himself screaming, pleading. But all went unanswered as his Brother _mentor_ fully stripped him. The feeling that followed afterward of a shrieking pain from being assaulted sexually by such a large man wasn’t so much of a shock as it was a breaking of his hopes. He had come all this way to find nothing but the same treatment. The same abuse. After the first few minutes, Gerald’s screams and pleas ceased. He stopped struggling and lay as a dead thing.  No help was coming.  No one ever came.  Because no one cared. Ever. The tears ran down his face as he was rhythmically pushed face first into the dirt over and over.

           Near what was probably midnight, Ranyak finally ceased his physical assaults. “You’re lucky,” he whispered to Gerald,” I’ve had some others suffocate like this. Unfortunate in the extreme,” he chuckled to himself, pushing Gerald’s face into the dirt one more time. Gerald could barely process the words, so beaten and battered was his physical state, ebbing in and out of conscious thought. “You’re broken in now, so don’t fight it next time, and I won’t have to tie you, pretty boy,” the big man said as he began cutting the ropes that bound Gerald. After Brother Ranyak left, Gerald lay curled up on the ground sobbing to himself. He felt so dirty; so unclean! He ran his hands up and down his thin arms as if trying to slough off the night’s tragedy. From one abuse to another. And here he had thought himself free of all this. His tears soaked the ground as he scrabbled over the dirt and weeds to pull on what was left of his clothing.

          He sat on a stump after dressing while his despair leaked away into the night. Calm eventually returned in its wake. How could he have been so stupid? So naïve? His lot was seemingly cast into stone. Others controlled his life always. When had he ever seen different? But it wouldn’t last forever. No. Not forever. And from this self-proclamation, the darkness returned, bringing with it anger, and a new kind of serenity. That of premeditated murder. Yes. He might not be able to accomplish it just yet, but he would have his revenge on that man. On the rest of his tormentors, too, if he got a chance. He would bide his time well, and strike when the opportunity presented itself. Simple. Gerald even managed a crooked smile as he imagined the asinine fool’s blood running out of his body as he pushed a blade through his throat. It would be thick and hot as it ran over his hands. He might even taste a bit of it…  He paused. The last thought had given him a shiver that wasn’t at all born of revulsion.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Chance**

          Gerald looked up from his lecture, noting the entrance of several soldiers through the back of the auditorium. They filed in silently, most students not even noticing their presence. But Gerald noticed everything. At 17, he was the youngest adjunct instructor the Abbey Sircluth had ever utilized. Normally reserved for fully graduated students, the position held a certain prestige. But his research and extensive discoveries on Earth-based science and religion had propelled him to the forefront of his classes. And this couldn’t be ignored by the abbey’s leaders. This had eventually given rise to his early graduation from the basic level of student initiate to student teacher. And he was certain to be further promoted within this very year to the full honors of graduate instructor. A rigorous academic program that generally required a minimum of five to six years to complete was nearly accomplished in just three by young Gerald Tarrant.

          The physical side of his training had produced more sporadic results. While no one would ever remark upon Gerald’s masculine body structure, the swordplay and exercises in military training had brought about a whipcord tautness to his lean frame. Muscle and sinew stood out easily now from his slender body, and he found greatly increased endurance as another result. However, early on, the Abbey’s healers had discovered within him a particularly limiting deformity of his cardiovascular system. It was a congenital valvular defect that was impossible to repair, at least in those times. At the time it was revealed, the lead healer had informed him that it would likely only ever limit his capacity for extended vigorous activity and nothing else. It was simply a physical limitation for him that was not as visible as other types of defects, such as bad knees or a malformed extremity. And so he thought little about it after that. Every now again, he would feel somewhat out of breath during activity and would simply modify his current actions.

          His eyes narrowed as he tracked the soldiers’ progress across the back wall of the auditorium. His speech never faltering, he then observed a tall man of medium build with dark, sandy hair enter after them and seat himself in front of the perimeter they formed. His eyes were dark and contemplative, but held a hint of liveliness that was well hidden at the moment. Gerald continued his lecture, expounding on the belief system necessary for his grand thesis project to gain a solid footing. He had taken from the Earth-bound ideology and religions and created a new belief system for their fae-reactive world that would, in effect, create a sheltering benefactor from the reinforced belief patterns of the collective human mind. In essence, they would create or bring about a God of their own. His only problem was that this small population contained within the abbey would never serve as a proper host. There simply weren’t enough human consciousnesses gathered here to affect the sort of change he needed. To truly succeed, his plan would require thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of minds all set to the same goal and belief set. He spoke passionately on the subject, for it was this that he had decided would be his lasting mark upon the world. The last two years of his life had been dedicated to this very belief set.

          He would live eternally through the development of this safety net for humanity. Once created, this beneficent manmade God would enact to protect them from the fae’s ill effects, thus saving humanity with humanity. Eventually, the planet would reflect a more Earth-like ecosystem, with less and less fae able to interact with mankind. When he had first begun piecing together his theory, he had thought to create enough energy and will from the population on Erna so as to attract the God of their homeworld of Earth. But as he continued in his research, he began to doubt that it was a viable option. Science was his focus, and on this world of Erna, the fae was a part of that science. And science became his God. And so he turned to the creation of the One God as his life’s work and humanity’s chance at salvation.

          The sandy haired individual watched his presentation and oratory as if entranced. And in truth, he may have been. Such was the adept’s skill at weaving words into one’s soul that he often left these presentations with a gaggle of new converts. And as he concluded, his eyes kept wandering back to this stranger. He looked familiar, as if Gerald had maybe seen him from a distance and not in person. No matter, though, for as the room cleared, it became apparent that the stranger meant to stay after.

          Gerald sat at his podium as the stragglers finally exited and sifted through papers, determined to make the man approach him first. He did not have to wait long. A fairly deep baritone drew his eyes upward. “Am I to assume that you are the credit behind this One God theory?” the sandy haired man inquired. His dark eyes were actually a deep blue, sparkling with an inner curiosity. He stood straight-backed in front of the podium and desk. Two of the soldiers had accompanied him to the front of the room and stood rigidly to either side. Who _was_ this guy?

          Gerald leaned back, acting casually, and answered simply, “Yes.” A moment of silence passed between them before the stranger leaned forward and offered his hand with an earnest smile and expression. “Richard Gannon, at your service. I would dearly love to hear more of these ideas of yours. I have somewhat of a dilemma that I believe your theories may assist me in.” Gerald had automatically reached out for the proffered hand, but as he grasped it and began to shake in greeting, his legs nearly gave out beneath him. Richard Gannon! **_King_** Richard Gannon!!! “I, uh…that is…whatever you’d like, Your Majesty. I am at your disposal,” he stammered. Gannon seemed amused by this but said nothing of it. He merely proceeded forth with an explanation of his previously mentioned issue. Erna’s natural defense system was finally rousing to a finale. They were seeing more and more attacks within town borders. Fae-born stalked mankind almost freely in some districts, and use of the fae was generally unpredictable enough that it could not be fully relied upon for defense.

          Gannon believed that mankind had perhaps another 20 or so years before the fae succeeded in wiping them from the face of Erna. “And so,” Gannon ended, “I am at a loss as to how to proceed. Everything I have tried has failed utterly. Fae used against fae is no use, for the planet is a master of adaptation. Physical assault fails every time, unless overwhelming numbers are used.” He sighed heavily and paced away a bit. “When I heard of your theory of this One God...I didn’t know what to think, honestly. A visiting scholar brought word of it through my court. I was to travel here for my yearly inspection of the archives soon anyway, and so I saw this as a chance to investigate personally into this promising myth that had been brought before me. And in truth, at first I had set out for Abbey Sircluth thinking I would be arresting a madman who thought to elevate himself to the level of a deity.” He laughed here. A short bark. “I have been here for days now, though. And I have read your discourse and treatise. I came tonight as a final confirmation, and I found it. I found it! This thing you have dreamed…it is brilliant! It could save us, do you see?” And indeed, Gerald did see. For it was this very thing for which he was preparing these last few years. His heart beat wildly at the promise this meeting held. His dreams could become reality. He would be a scholar, and his works would live forever with the patronage of his king behind him. He would be permanently out of reach of his family!

          Gannon approached the lectern quickly and stood over Gerald, saying, closer to pleading, “What can I do to help bring this to my people? To humanity? We are so very close to annihilation, but this fact has been kept as silent as possible as of yet. Panic will only serve to foster and birth multitudes more of these fae-born nightmares. We have reached a stand-still in our population. Just as many die each day as are born. It is only a matter of time before the deaths creep past the births, and we begin the slide into extinction. Tell me, please, will you help me?” The king stood with his hands in fists at his sides, his face showed an emotional strain that had been held back before, and it lined his still-youthful face with sorrow and worry. The guards all remained at attention, as though nothing of import were happening right before them.

          Gerald’s heartbeat slowed from its frantic pace as he regained control of his facile mind. He reached up to the place where his fae-collar used to hang and traced his fingers along his clavicle.  It had been gone now for well over two years. He had discovered that dark fae was not prohibited through its fae-blocking enchantments. Apparently, adepts had not been found to utilize the dark fae yet, and so protective charms laid upon the collar did not encompass prevention of the use of that particular fae. It had crumbled to ashes around him when he discovered this. He smiled up at Gannon as he accepted this charge. After all, it was only his every wish being offered to him. And if it propelled him to the forefront of humankind as their savior of a sort, then all the better. Right? His smile deepened as they spoke long into the night.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

          The next morning found an empty cell where a young scholar had once resided. A train of horse-drawn carriages marched smartly away from the Abbey Sircluth. There were no well-wishers to see him on his way, for the young man who left the abbey this day had been recluse in his habits. Believers in the One God, he left. Friends, there were none. And so it was a silent farewell that was bid him as he sat across from the ruler of the only known Ernan colony and rolled toward his destiny. Also found that day were the brutally maimed remains of one of the abbey’s other inhabitants. Brother Ranyak by name. The Brothers and Sisters gathered outside of his room puzzling over the note he had left. It was in his own cramped handwriting, of that they were sure. Suicide was not uncommon among initiates, but it was rare among full Brothers. Still, his door had still been locked from the inside, and there was no window access.

          The gash in his throat would almost seem a result of teeth instead of a bladed instrument. In fact, if closely examined, it may have been determined to actually have a good probability of _being_ the result of a bite. But there was too much else going on to fully focus on this fact, for the thing that they couldn’t wrap their brains around was the other injury, this one having been delivered pre-mortem. After all, how can a grown man, locked in a small monk’s cell by himself, manage to effectively impale himself rectally upon a small sapling?    

          Somewhere down the road from Abbey Sircluth, Gerald Tarrant shivered with the memory of the warm taste of a bittersweet, thick liquid passing through his lips as he dozed at the windowsill of the king’s carriage…….

 


	19. Belief

**Belief**

            They traveled north towards the royal city of Rialta, or at least in those days it was the royal city. The journey began by carriage from the abbey but quickly transformed into one of aquatic nature. A large inland lake that spanned a little over a week’s sailing lay ahead of them. It was entitled the Lac de Turm, the Lake of Storms, and rightly so. Almost daily a short but nasty squall from the mountains to their East would sweep over them, rocking the medium sized sailing vessel to and fro. In between, though, swift currents running just under the crystal blue surface would easily run vessels all over the lake, if one knew where to look. One couldn’t quite see land while in the lake’s center, but it was easily enough found.

            Besides learning that he was completely inept at sailing, Gerald discovered that King Gannon was not a passive ruler. No. He was constantly among his people wherever they went, even on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. “No better way in life to learn than by doing, Gerald,” he had laughed once when Gerald commented on his daring to walk through the windswept decking. And soon the young adept joined in, learning what little was allowed him of the art of sailcraft. Training at the abbey had gained him little in the way of muscular bulk, but had turned his youthfully lean frame into a whipcord of taught muscles. They were mostly unused to such work as sailing, though, and so he ended up flat on his ass or back many times. Shaking his head, he looked now at the sparkling eyes and ready laughter of his monarch as the rain lashed down on them and felt himself smile for the first time in what seemed ages. And then he tightened his grip on the rail he held next to the helmsman as the next series of waves dashed themselves against the vessel. Well, there was living, and then there was surviving, he thought as he fought to prevent the impacts from throwing him overboard.

            But as the ship righted itself once again, and the adrenaline was still high in his system, he rethought, _I think all I have done in my life thus far has been to survive_. He watched as the king slid down a line and pulled it taught to tie off with another sailor. They worked so fluently together. Richard laughed at something the other man yelled, and they both slapped each other on the back as they moved to the next task before them. The king seemed as happy as if he were at vacation on a luxury barge. Envious, Gerald thought _, I want to live_. And as he thought about it more in depth, it came with more conviction, _I want to **live**._

            The days passed, and soon they arrived at the shores of a nameless fishing village that was the first of two more stops before reaching the royal city. Really, it was more just three shacks with a pier that reached far enough out for their ship to dock at. Gannon had chosen this place to debark as there would be no need of fanfare that slowed the king down everywhere he went. “I would rather travel among my people than above them,” he once remarked. Truly, Gerald had been unaware of how burdensome being a ruler could be, and it made him appreciate the king’s attitude all the more. He was so very open to ideas and suggestions from those that Gerald’s father would have considered far beneath him. And his open nature seemed to inspire an easy confidence in those who interacted with him. He could not have won a better ally, Gerald had decided.

            Traveling by foot for a few days was perfectly fine by Gerald, who had found he preferred the land. The king and he would sit up late at night, after the day’s march, discussing the future canon of Gerald’s soon-to-be-founded religion, of sorts. Both had decided that it was absolutely necessary to further engender loyalty and obeisance from the populace to the project the young adept was undertaking. “Belief and faith are the keys,” he said to the king one night. “Unwaivering belief that something intangible is tangible will make it so on this planet for most. We need the belief of the many to encompass everyone, so that all humanity may benefit from this.” And Gannon stared back at him with thoughtful eyes, finally saying, “We shall need to create some title for you, something to lend extra credence to your words so that the noble houses will have less difficulty grasping the concepts you put forth, and less struggle against change will occur. I am certain that the common folk will be easily won over, but nobility is an altogether different matter. Perhaps you could be the Duke of…well, I don’t know.” Gerald pondered this as well, with slight consternation, “I don’t want any extra titles.” But Gannon was adamant, “They are small minded when it comes to things of this nature. There must be something…” His mind alighted on an idea, “I could create a new title! Yes! Let me think on it, it will come to me. But by creating a new title, I can specify exactly the kind of influence you can have. Maybe a title that is church specific? Yes. It will be perfect.”

            Gerald thought out loud, “The current church in power will not like this.” Gannon interrupted, “But they do not matter. They are not saving lives. We are. We need this Gerald. Humanity needs this so very badly.”  Gerald paused, thinking over something that kept occurring to him through their conversations. “Do you suppose that the current church would go along with us if, say, a miracle happened and they were able to credit it to themselves?” Curiosity was returned in Richard’s stare, “I would suppose they would actually be grateful if anything. Their influence isn’t exactly wide-spread. What kind of miracle?” Gerald stared into the fire, the synapses in his brain burning brighter than the flames before him, “Something big. Something, very big.” And on and on the conversations would flow, often leaving them barely awake throughout the day, dozing in the carriage or saddle.

            Thus far, their daytime conversations were more general. And the king had asked nothing much of Gerald’s family. At least, he had learned not to. One misbegotten question had returned such a cold answer that he had resolved to never bring it up again. But these were instances in which he saw a darker side within his young friend that chilled him with their surfacing. He could recall one such instance that had brought him great sadness. He and Gerald had been riding in a hired carriage toward Rialta, on the last leg of their journey, when they passed a group of children playing at performing a wedding. They were perhaps 11 or 12, just old enough to begin to figure things out but not old enough to see marriage as anything more than an amusement. Richard had remarked on what surprises were in store for them, friendships, romance, and all. Gerald had gone very still during his words.

            “What is it, young Tarrant? You look as if you disagree, eh?” he jibed at the young man, hoping to elicit some answers. Gerald stared on out the window, never looking at his king as he replied flatly, “Friendship. What is that? An exchange of mutual gain until one benefits no longer. And love,” he spat the word with such hatred, “It is a lie. Merely another game to play; another means of harming the opponent.” Such was the conviction behind the declaration that Richard had been speechless for the better part of an hour before settling on a topic of a safer nature. Other instances similar to this had occurred that led the king to understand that this other man’s home life and upbringing had been anything but loving. At times, it seemed Gerald even hinted at violence done to his person. But the young adept never directly addressed it; he merely distanced himself from it. Gannon understood and allowed him his space, never delving deeper than Gerald himself chose to. It enraged him, though, to think that such a brilliant mind was so misused.

            It had taken almost three weeks of traveling together before Gerald had worked up the nerve and confidence necessary to reveal his adeptitude to Gannon. He had seen no indication thus far to evidence that the king would react badly, but neither had he seen evidence that he would react gladly. There was absolutely nothing to go on. He attempted to work it in the conversation once, after those first few weeks, and Gannon had seen straight through the attempt. “Gerald, what is it you want to know?” he had asked of him outright. And after a few moments’ hesitancy, Gerald told of it, often alluding to a great suffering as a result of being adept, but never giving details as was always his way when speaking of his upbringing. And to Gerald’s surprise, Gannon’s reaction to the admission of his intuitive use of the fae was quite calm, saying only, “I believe it is as a sword, neither good nor evil. It depends upon the person wielding it. However,” he said with eyes locked on to Gerald’s, “You would do best to keep it quiet in these times. People are uneasy about the fae, as it is currently trying to destroy us. And winning. Better to not have them associate you with it.” He never brought it up or questioned Gerald about it after that. And so the weeks passed as they traveled to the king’s city, finally arriving on a clear day. The plans for the performance of a miracle had solidified for Gerald, and while he had discussed the actual imagery with Gannon, he did not tell him the reality of how he would accomplish it. Let the king believe his so-called fae powers and adeptitude were to credit. The reality would likely not be seen with such acceptance…it was less like adepthood; more like, witchcraft….


	20. Omission

**Omission**

          Arriving in Rialta to much fanfare, King Gannon exited the hired carriage only to trade it for the royal coach. However, rather than simply being a change in transportation, he and the young adept had devised a more fanciful show for the onlookers. The day before their arrival, they had settled on a bit of theatrics that was certain to gain a bit of attention and stir gossip. Richard exited the hired carriage first, with Gerald following after him in just moments. He was dressed as those monks in the abbey tended to, with plain browns and grays and a hooded cloak. The hood he kept up, shielding his features, and Gannon made a show of ushering him to the waiting coach, saying things like, “We can’t have you exposed right now, so keep the hood up,” “Speak to no one yet,” and other lines to develop a bit of mystery around the king’s guest. Gerald even made a dramatic showing of letting the hood slip back once, so that the crowd of observers could have a bit more to speculate on. Gannon had noticed early on that Gerald was quite an attractive and striking youth, and so they used this to full advantage. They left the city outskirts, headed for the inner city and castle, with gossip and whispering in their wake of the gray eyed, handsome young guest of the king.

           Once settled in the main castle keep, Gerald had found himself not quite a prisoner but close enough to it. They had resolved that his identity would remain a mystery for now, and so he was to reside in a certain wing of the castle until the day of his revelation at the church. However, the confines were not uncomfortable. In actuality, they had been constructed with visiting dignitaries in mind, and as such had every comfort made available. High, vaulted ceilings with artistry depicted upon every available space, windows that opened onto a spacious balcony overlooking the main gardens, entertaining rooms with various alcohols, liqueurs, and a selection of games, and other various set ups maximized for comfort. Then there was Gerald’s instantaneous favorite: the bathing room. With a recessed marble tub large enough for five guests at a time, heating available at a turn of a knob, and water pumped in easily via the local aqueduct…it was heavenly to the fastidious young man. And he immediately took advantage of it before exploring the remainder of the rooms. It was a complete turnabout from his previously cloistered life in the abbey, and it was an enigma when compared to his past living situation as a child. He toured the enormous suite of rooms twice before finally settling on a small reclining sofa to think and plan on his method of creating a “miracle” for the followers of the current church in power.

          The church was not overly popular with the general public any longer, and its congregation had defected slowly over the years since the colony had landed here. The constant attacks from the fae and the lack of response from their God of Earth drove them into despair. And so they trickled out of the group of faithful and either chose to follow some of the more recently “discovered” gods of Erna, or they chose to believe nothing at all and simply accepted their fate for what it was. The main body of the Church of God dwelt within the main city of Rialta, but there were several smaller congregations scattered throughout the sparsely populated planet as well. They clung to and attempted to hold to the old worshipful methods of Earth, though most all texts denoting what this entailed had been lost or destroyed years and years ago. So much interpretation was done, for good and ill, in the name of God. Changes could come suddenly to canonized scripture, which were explained only by way of saying that the old was found to be faulty or that new evidence suggested an opposite approach to worship. This had earned them few new converts over the years as most people on Terra looked more for stability than change in their lives.  

           Reviewing the church’s history in his mind, Gerald decided he must incorporate the need for stability within his new doctrines. Repetition would play an important part in this fae Working that would become a religion. Everyone needed to believe the same thing consistently, and so it would need to be recorded and disseminated appropriately so that multiple interpretations would not be possible. “I need a catch, something to pull them in,” he whispered to himself. Something that would define a kinder God, one who would forgive even those who had turned their backs on Him. He would be merciful, yes. And forgiving…that’s it. “The nature of the One God is mercy; and His word is forgiveness,” Gerald spoke aloud in triumph (CFT, WTNF pg 353). “Perfect!” He pushed off of the sofa and walked quickly to the desk where he had been jotting down his ideas, which would later be organized into the canon and doctrines of the new church. His eyes followed along the page, seeking inconsistencies and finding none.

          He was still engrossed with its composing two days later when there was a bell rung to notify him a visitor had arrived at his door. He had seen no one but the palace staff since arriving, and so he was anxious to see who it was. He crossed the plush mahogany carpets and through the waiting room to find the king standing without his doors. Richard smiled and entered as Gerald stepped aside, no greeting necessary. Guards assigned to the king stood outside and took up posts beside the doors as the adept closed them. Then he turned to ask what had the monarch so seemingly happy.

          Richard had gone to one of the balconies and was leaning over onto the railing, gazing out upon his city as the sun rode low in the sky. The Core would be up soon, Gerald noted. Gannon turned to face Gerald as he approached, smiling once again with an expression that shone through his dark blue eyes as well. “You see there, Gerald?” he asked, pointing toward an enormous domed building with a white flag displayed atop it containing some kind of circular symbols thereon. He nodded. “That is where you will be introducing mankind to their salvation two weeks hence. I cannot believe it will finally happen. We’ll be safe. My people will be safe,” he said with deep sincerity. For all of his joking nature, King Gannon did care deeply for Erna’s human inhabitants that were his subjects. Gerald was stunned momentarily. So, it was actually going to happen. It all still seemed so dreamlike to him sometimes. Richard asked, only half-jokingly, “So, are you ready to save our race?”

          Gerald gave a half-smile that clouded somewhat at the thought of lying even partially to his king. “Yes. I have begun the preparations for the spectacle necessary and should be finished well within that time frame. I think even you’ll be impressed.” The king laughed, “I’m constantly impressed by you, young Tarrant. Your mind is so keen and facile. How did your counterparts keep up with you at the abbey? And your family, they must be extremely proud to have such a brilliant son.” Unused to such praise, Gerald had initially simply looked uncomfortable as Gannon spoke; but at the mention of his family, he darkened visibly in front of the king. “My family knows nothing of my life. And cares not, I should think,” he said as he walked away abruptly from Richard and over to his desk back inside the walls. He needed a minute.

         Gannon followed with concern evident. He hadn’t meant to upset his friend, and he had simply slipped up with the mention of family. He had known for quite a while that something was not quite right in the Tarrant household but always seemed to forget at the worst time. “Gerald, truly, I’m sorry. Whatever it is they have done to earn your ire, I am sorry that my misspoken and thoughtless words seem to have dredged it up. Please, accept my apology?” He bent his head, as low a bow as a monarch might make to anyone, which was a very high compliment being paid and denoted the seriousness of his words. Gerald looked on, coming slowly out of his mood, determined not to ruin what should have been glad tidings. After all, he knew the king valued friends and family very highly. Gannon had worn black for a year after his wife had died seven years prior. He reached out to lay a hand upon the king’s shoulder and said, “Forget it. They mean nothing to me. It only caught me off guard is all.” And with that, the king looked up again, smiled, and done was done.

          Gerald pulled leaflets of papers out across the desk, explaining and exhibiting the words he had begun to create the new religion upon. They discussed possible symbology and other lore that might feed into his creation, and Richard updated him on the rumors that had been planted about the secret guest of the king. The city was high in anticipation to discover the identity of this mysterious young man. And just today, Gannon had allowed word of the imminent oratory at the church two weeks hence. The place would be packed; he had no doubt of that. And so they spent the next few days in creating new theological theories, doctrines, and other necessary components that would feed in to the success of this massive undertaking of faith. Richard would come by late at night after the affairs of his kingdom had been handled only to be met with several new documents, phrases, and suggested canon of which Gerald needed proofing.

          Four days prior to the event itself, however, Gerald asked to be left to his own devices, stating that his preparation of the fae processes required for the miraculous spectacle would need his total attention and could even be dangerous to those in close proximity while he performed the necessary grounding. Gannon had acquiesced, but not without showing a bit of concern. He turned to Gerald as he was leaving that last night, asking, “You’re not in any danger, though, are you? I mean, you could handle whatever it is you’re preparing for, right? It’s just a matter of concentration or something?” And Gerald stopped, clearly confused by the other man’s concern and the note of worry present in the tone of his voice. “I am well-practiced, Your Majesty. Fear not for my safety.” And the king smiled, “Your Majesty? So formal.” He shook his head, speaking again, “Gerald, you will be saving the human race over the next few years. _That_ is true majesty. Not an inherited title.” He stepped closer to Gerald, leaving perhaps a pace between them. It was not exactly uncomfortably close, but it did make the adept take note.

          The king reached his hand out and placed it on Gerald’s forearm, giving a light squeeze. “Gerald, I want you to know that I think very highly of you. You are very special to me, even. And I couldn’t bare thinking of losing you.” And just like that, Richard leaned forward and placed a light kiss upon Gerald’s lips, freezing the adept where he stood. Sensing the sudden rigidity of the other man, Richard stepped back a pace so as to be less threatening. Gerald seemed to relax a bit then, until he heard the king saying in a light whisper, “I think I could even find love again, were it with one such as you.”

          Gerald’s heart beat ferociously within his chest, but not from excitement. No. From fear. For love was no part of what he believed to be his future. It was a detriment. He had learned that from Jerilyn. But having no desire to hurt this other man who had, up until this moment, been nothing but a staunch supporter and friend, he attempted to mitigate the damage somewhat. He held out his hands in supplication, saying, “Your Majesty. Richard. I have no capacity for love left within me. It has no part to play in my life. I learned this lesson from a friend long ago: love is a weakness that leaves you open for attack. Nothing else. I’m sorry. Love may be meant for others, but it is not for me,” he finished with a low voice and eyes downcast. He felt ashamed for being such a coldhearted person, but he honestly didn’t believe he any longer had the capacity to truly love another. He always felt the emptiness, sure; but it filled so easily with hate that he barely noticed it any more.

          The king nodded sadly, obviously pitying the young man in front of him. To be so alone…  To forever lock one’s self away from the most valuable of human interactions…it was horrifying to Richard. But, perhaps the boy would heal in time. He was young yet. And maybe he had just had a bad row with a love interest recently. So, with this somewhat heartening thought, the king merely smiled, said he understood, and bid Gerald to continue on as if nothing had ever been mentioned. He left without another word, but did seem to be pacified, leaving Gerald to compose himself and set to work on his miracle. He still felt a twinge of guilt in knowing that he lied by way of omission. Let the king think he used only powers of an adept. The truth would likely only hurt. The young man was excited somewhat, too. It would be a slightly new undertaking for him, as he had only studied this technique before but had never actually employed it. But really, how hard could the basic Summoning of a demon actually be?


	21. Demon

**Demon**

          Gerald’s preparations for the next two days included an in-depth review of his own notes concerning demonology and much conjecturing of his own devising as well. Sources, reliable ones anyway, were scarce with regard to true demon nature. And the ones he had had been scoured through and through. They lay across his desk as if collapsed from a great fatigue. There was no clear cut method to a Summoning apparently. It seemed to depend solely on the force of will of the person performing the feat more so than symbols and phrasing. And the first Summoning was generally the most difficult. On that at least, all of his sources had agreed. Once a link had been established, should one choose to Summon the same demon repeatedly, it could be done with barely any prep time or ingredients. This was incredibly important because he couldn’t be seen to be performing rites or arts of any kind that would be associated with witchcraft or sorcery. No, that would have the opposite effect. But this ‘miracle’ he had planned would secure his place forever in the people’s minds, and so the risk was worth it.

         Still, there was the little issue that he couldn’t ignore, and that was the fact that over half of the individuals who performed these rites eventually became ensnared by the very same demons in some unknown manner. The lucky few simply ended up worshipping them as deities. The majority of others, well, there was never much left of them to say exactly what it was that became of them. And so Gerald prepared himself mentally most of all, strengthening shields within his mind that would counteract any sorcerous attacks or intrusions that were incoming.

          One looking from the outside might wonder why the young man bothered with the demon Summoning in the first place. After all, he possessed the powers of an adept, and seemingly prodigious ones at that. However, as the development of these skills had always been under the restrictions imposed in being confined to an abbey, it left young Tarrant with no true measure of his own strength and endurance. Every opportunity for advancing knowledge of his powers had been taken advantage of by him, but it was almost always done within some type of constraint. And so, not knowing whether his powers were up to the monumental task before him, he steered more toward the olden arcane ways of the very first settlers barely a few hundred years prior. His knowledge of demon lore included the fact that they were among the most proficient at creating illusory constructs that were as real as the audience believed them to be. Meaning, the person experiencing the illusion might actually feel the touch of a long lost loved one rather than having the construct fall apart as soon as contact was made between reality and falsehood. No. The illusions constructed by demons were as solid as they were perceived and believed to be. He needed that component to fully implement his change within this colony.

            Two nights before the presentation now, he began his first Summoning, intent on establishing an initial link with a nonviolent entity, one that would serve his purposes but not be overtly or immediately dangerous. He did not employ chanting or phraseology in his ritual. He merely scrawled his outline of focus on the floor with ground crystal powder and then sat down in a meditative pose to begin the mental exercises associated with the Summoning. The ring of crystal powder would allow him an easy focus to keep the Summoned one confined within for the during of the bargaining for its services. All of his sources had also been adamant that this was nonnegotiable, as all demons sought dominion over their summoners.

            His mind a blank field in which only one desire radiated forth, he focused his will upon opening a channel that would attract a potential fae-being. He maintained this state of mind for almost an hour before his concentration wavered momentarily. It was very brief, but he couldn’t help thinking with delight at the sheer pleasure it would be to finally be acknowledged for his achievements. He recognized the lapse as soon as it occurred and promptly cut off his extraneous thoughts, hoping that the scant opening wasn’t enough to have influenced the Summoning in any way. It was harmless enough at any rate. He had only thought of the good things to come from his efforts and the resultant feelings. Surely that couldn’t do anything?

            His concentration remained steady for another half an hour before he finally realized his goal. Having sat in silence and stillness for so long, even the slightest disturbance in the air alerted him of an imminent change. Before him, the crystal powder appeared to merely sparkle more than before, while the lights in the room became somewhat less accommodating. Then, an area close to the center of the demarcated floor began to darken and elongate. Slowly, it took the misty form of a man of similar age, perhaps somewhat older, who was shaved bald and wore loose fitting robes of a variety of rioting colors. Solidifying in moments, the man looked around his surroundings briefly and then focused on the adept before him.

            They sat staring at each other for some time, sensing and probing, gathering visual information. The man within the crystal circle spoke first, though, standing up as he did. “Well, this isn’t quite what I expected for my first time,” the demon in man form smiled as he began to pace the circle, looking out at the myriad of scattered scrolls and books among the room’s decor. Tarrant had swiftly taken to his feet as well in thick anticipation of violence. Fae gathered around his body as he awaited the first attack. None was forthcoming, however, and he was left standing in that expectant manner for quite some time. It spoke again, thoughtfully, “Your mental shields are very good. Some of the best I’ve encountered. But I still sense things about you, young sir. And you can rest easy. There is nothing I will do that will ever hurt you in any way.” _What an obvious ploy_ , thought the adept. Gerald snorted in disbelief, “You’ll forgive me if I don’t immediately take the word of a demon I am holding confined at the moment.”

            The demon man canted his head a bit at that statement. “Oh, am I really? Well, that’s great then. You don’t mind if I walk about a bit do you? I get very jittery around humans.” And with that, the demon stepped over the crystal powder and began to examine the room more closely, pulling things off of tables and shelves and turning them in its hands. Gerald stood stock still, frozen with the knowledge that this demon must be of a high order indeed to have not even flinched when crossing over that barrier. He still held himself for a fight, despite how unassuming this creature in front of him acted. The fae at his feet roiled about, as if sensing his growing wariness…and not some small amount of trepidation.

            The entity stopped its perusal of the shelves and shook its head when it noticed this. “You really have nothing to worry about from me, my friend. Here,” it said as it flopped into a chair, “Is this better? My name is Karril by the way. I couldn’t come up with anything better when I came into my awareness, so I’ve just kept it these past hundred or so years that I’ve been ‘alive.’ What’s your name?” The easy manner in which it conversed was obviously meant to disarm the recipient. Tarrant steeled himself to remain alert and get on with the meeting. Delay could be this one’s method of seeking to weaken him through fatigue. He replied curtly, “Gerald. And I have some small purpose in bringing you here. It involves…”  “Oh, good,” Karril interrupted, “I’ve always wanted to get to do this kind of thing. I just never seemed to be the one to get Called.” He sat there like an expectant puppy after this statement, leaving Gerald feeling more and more out of his depth.. “As I was saying,” Gerald began again, “I have a certain theatrical type request of you that I believe your kind is most proficient at.” Karril looked even more interested as Gerald continued, “I need a miracle. Or at least, I need people to ‘see’ a miracle. If they believe what they see then it will be true to them whether it really is or not.”

            As Gerald discussed the particulars of his desired illusory concept, the demon listened raptly, even excitedly clapping his hands a few times in seeming glee and offering suggestions of his own. This was going much different than the young adept had been lead to believe. Which made it all the more dangerous as there was no reference point for him to work from. Even so, he kept his guard up for the most part, feeling somewhat foolish towards the end of their conversation. But, better safe than being enslaved to a demon for eternity!

            At the conclusion of their discussion, Tarrant probed a bit. “And how should I Summon you again, now that I have…um…made your acquaintance,” the adept inquired, figuring that the demon would more appreciate being deemed a guest and spoken to as such. And he was right. Karril responded, “Nothing difficult. Just speak my name with the thought of desiring my presence. I will hear it, and if I’m able, I will come. But I will be sure to be available for _this_! It sounds absolutely divine!” Gerald thought it an odd thing for it to say about whether it was available or not since a Summoning literally pulled a demon away from anywhere it was residing. But he let it go. Perhaps it was just a ploy to confuse him or set him off guard further? The important thing was that it had agreed to perform the task. Now to discuss payment. He dreaded what a demon might ask for in compensation. But again, he was surprised.

            “Payment?” Karril asked confusedly. “Why, your thrill at its completion will be all that’s needed.” Gerald became a bit angry at this, figuring the thing was finally showing its hand and playing with him now, “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that you would do this for nothing other than seeing me happy? Now, what form of sacrifice are you holding out asking for? Is it monetary, blood,…?” The demon had a look of understanding light his features. “Ah, I see what you’re thinking. And no, I don’t do it just to be ‘seeing you happy’ as you put it.” Gerald braced himself for what it would request, thinking the worst. “I get my ‘payment’ from the pleasure you experience as a result of my assistance. It’s how my kind feed. We each have our own specific emotional sustenance that we derive power from. Our aspects, if you will. Mine is pleasure in all its various and misunderstood forms.”

            Gerald stared at the demon as if it had turned into his mother and danced naked in a bonfire. Was it speaking truth? Truly?? He found his composure, outwardly at least, several seconds later, saying only, “I see.” And Karril, sensing the young man had need of privacy, decided to make his exit at this time. Before leaving, though, he spoke once more, “I’m going to leave now. But Summon me again tomorrow night with all of your questions so I can set your mind at ease. I can tell this has not gone as you expected. Well, this was _my_ first response to an actual Summoning, so I didn’t have many expectations at all really! Ha!” he laughed at his own joke while Gerald stared on. “Well, ahem, I must say that you were quite nicer than I would have been lead to believe,” continued Karril, who slowly approached Gerald as he spoke. “There’s something about you, though. As if you have something hidden within. Something dark.” He paused, looking through Gerald, considering. “Very dark.” And then it blinked out of existence the next moment, leaving Gerald to quickly survey the room for any potential ambush. And, of course, there were none.

               Feeling very much confused, he sat down to mull over what he had just accomplished. He was excited, yes. But also a little concerned still that this all may be some elaborate prank of the demon’s in which he would end up humiliated. After all, what if the demon simply botched the job on purpose and ended up getting Gerald burned by a crowd of unruly townfolk? He continued these thoughts for about another hour, finally sighing in a display of grand frustration at the lack of having gotten anywhere within his own musings. He traversed the room and came to stand beside his desk, looking at the various books lying over everything. He picked up the volume that, prior to this night, had been considered the preeminent authority on demon lore, turned it over once in his hands, and then tossed it into the fireplace. Watching it burn and curl, he smiled.

 

 


	22. Prophet

**Prophet**

            The night following, Gerald Summoned the demon again. And as it had stated the previous night, simply naming it and desiring its presence called it forth. Tarrant, still on guard at first no matter the reassurances offered, spoke with Karril at length concerning the illusion to be performed on the morrow. This topic was soon exhausted, however, and they moved on to such more fascinating and scientific subjects as the basis of good and evil within the planet’s fae. “There is no good or bad, Gerald. There is only the potential power residing within this planet’s fae forces. Much as a knife can be wielded for good or ill, so may the fae, whether it be earth, tidal, or dark,” had been the demon’s opening statement on that. Gerald had long suspected as much but had had no means of confirming his suspicions. He had noticed during his lamentable childhood that the dark fae seemed to have an affinity for him that it did not show towards all others. While a young boy, he had believed this was further evidence of what made him intrinsically evil and deserving of his family’s disgust. As he had aged, however, he did not think of himself as an evil being, per se, and had come to think on it as just a peculiarity of that specific type of fae.

            So easily did the demon give up knowledge that eventually Tarrant did relent from his hyper-alert state. And once he was more able to relax, his keen mind rummaged through and picked facts from the demon as fast as they both could speak. At the conclusion of the second meeting, as Karril made his abrupt exit, young Gerald sat ruminating on many things long into the night. One in particular stood preeminent among them. This will begin a most profitable relationship, he mused to himself as he entertained even more notions to introduce in their next conversation. But for now, he needed to attempt at least some form of rest. It was now late night, or early morning depending on how one looked at it, and he had an entire race to begin saving tomorrow.

OOOOO-----OOOOO-----OOOOO-----OOOOO-----OOOOO-----OOOOO-----OOOOO  
  


            The next morning arrived with a sullen gray light. Gerald broke his fast with light fare and dressed in his borrowed monk’s robes yet again. Every detail needed to be perfect to set the initial idea within the minds he would reach today. He saw King Gannon briefly and barely had time to nod in his direction before being ushered onto a back route to the great cathedral. He rode in an enclosed carriage, safe from prying eyes, as they wobbled down the less kept back streets; and he pondered the day’s events to come. Gannon would perform the introduction, building the anticipation and setting the tone, and then the current bishop would bless the proceedings. Hopefully, this would add credibility he could then build upon. Gerald would then speak before the crowd. And whilst giving his grand oratory, Karril would begin the supposed ‘miracle’ that would solidify his position as the Prophet of the One God. Though he didn’t much care for the titles to be bestowed upon him following today, he did agree to their necessity. People needed such things to cling to. And he might need them to defend his position and force this new dogma upon those with more political goals in mind.

            His travel time through the city was uneventful, if a bit bumpy. And he soon arrived at the rear of the cathedral where an elderly seeming man wearing one of the odd shaped hats of his order shuffled out to escort him to a waiting room off to the side of the grand presentation stage. Several deep breaths calmed his nerves as he listened to the muffled voices of the crowd without. At one point, the bishop himself came to meet with him, stating that he wished him well and also mentioning that the king had promised everyone “a great revelation of our times.” He had a strange look about him as he spoke with Gerald, though, that set the adept ill at ease. It was obvious the king must have forced this upon the church, and with no explanation either. The bishop was definitely not appreciative at this moment. _So, Richard told them nothing of the events to come; well the fewer who are aware, the more effective the illusion_ , he thought to himself. The crowd went silent soon after that, and he listened to Gannon speak of how he had been traveling and had discovered this young man among the abbey monks. He gave great detail in the descriptions of Gerald’s inspirational lectures and seeming connection with the Divine. He built on the drama of that story for a while before finally giving over to the bishop for the blessing of the day’s proceedings. Blessedly short, the bishop had little to say, probably wishing to remain neutral at this point. And then it was time.

            Gerald exited the room at the guidance of two brothers of the church, and walked onto a stage surrounded by thousands of city inhabitants. Truly Gannon had not lied about the effect their rumors had created. He let the hood of his robes fall as he approached the podium, setting in his mind the speech amplification Working for his voice to carry adequately. He noted several scribes off to one side who would be recording his every word and action. Well, they’d have their hands full today then. He smiled as he looked out across the thronging sea of people. The great presentation stage was open to the air, in the style of an outdoor amphitheater, except the speaker was on the elevated ground while the crowd gathered round below him. _The overcast clouds were a perfect touch_ , he thought.          

            The Prophet spoke unto the masses: “Hear me, lost children of Earth, colonists of Erna. For the end of your suffering is nigh. I will not waste time upon introductions, for the message I bear is far more important, and I am but the One God’s faithful servant in this. Yes, God. Even now, that God of which you have worshipped, denied, revoked, loved, and hated, is arranging for your eternal redemption! His goals are too farsighted for mere mortals to define; but in response to our pleas, He is changing, even now, in order to save us from our wretched annihilation at the hands of the fae. Yes, He does this even for those who have turned their backs upon Him, such is His love. For the nature of the One God is mercy; and His word is forgiveness (CFT, WTNF, pg 353).”

            “He hath given unto me, Gerald Tarrant, a vision of such pristine beauty that words cannot adequately give meaning to it. His plan, he has shown me, will rescue humanity from this planet’s afflictions. It will allow us to walk forth into the night once more with no fear of attack. The old sciences may once again return and be rediscovered as the effect of the fae relinquishes its grip. All of this, He has shown me, promised me; and I have been devotedly recording it within scripture to be given out among you.”

            “But the forces of this planet will not submit without trials, and He will need our help in His assault. The fae will not easily be conquered; not as long as we remain impure of heart and untrue to the One God. I tell you all now, that the only path to salvation from the fae and to eternal peace with our Lord, is through absolute dedication in His cause. There is no in between. No gray area. Your persistent need for reassurance that He is real, that He is listening and responsive, ends now. ‘Where is my proof of this reality then?’ you may be asking. And I tell you, there is no need for proof when you have faith to hold on to. The power of faith is absolute and will work many wonders upon this planet in due time. To seek making the intangible tangible is self-defeating, for it eats away at the strength of the spiritual foundation within one’s soul. But humanity is stubborn in its persistence of this one subject, and it is literally killing us from within to continue this way. And so, He will give you proof today that you may take with you to your grave. It is to be His most precious gift to his flock, and we must treat it accordingly. Afterward, it will be for each individual heart to rise up in faith and forever more cling to His precepts and His love.”

            Gerald observed the crowd as he spoke the words he had rehearsed over and over for the last few weeks. Even now, he tweaked some of them to fit the mood of those before him. He could barely make out individual features, but most of what he saw exuded a hope, fragile and small, but still there all the same. Water it properly, and it would flourish with unimaginable results. He also saw the bishop, narrow eyed and contemplative of his words. He would have to tread carefully near that one in the future. _He isn’t yet as desperate as his fellow man._ And then there was Richard. The king sat to Gerald’s right, perhaps 20 paces off, ringed by guards but rapt in his attention. He had never gotten to hear the whole thing at once, just preliminary proofs. By the look on his face, even _he_ might be feeling stirred by the emotion the adept was able to convey through the spoken word. _And now_ , Gerald thought, _for the best part_.

            He continued on, extolling the virtues necessary to this faith and ingraining in them a sense of gratefulness for the gift to be bestowed upon them that day. And while he continued his oratory, the steel gray sky was suddenly broken by a lone shaft of sunlight, which fell directly upon his position. _Perfect_. It seemed coincidence at first, but then the ray seemed to disconnect from its source and envelope the adept himself. He was practically glowing to the crowd’s eyes. And the clouds from whence the light beam had erupted began to spread away and dissipate, clearing the oppressive gloom, and continued to do so throughout the remainder of the performance. “He shall rid this great cathedral and its associated buildings and holdings from the taint of the fae-born from this day forth. There shall be no further incursions of these beings into His domain.” The glow surrounding him seemed to extend behind him for a moment, and ended looking like nothing so much as a pair of wings. His speech continued as the onlookers gasped in awe at the majesty of the sight before them, almost like a living angel from old Earth lore. “So join me brothers, sisters, in welcoming Him back with open arms and hearts. For He shall deliver us from the dangers of this planet,” and he paused, raising his hands high over head before yelling, “Starting today!” And as his hands came down forcefully toward the floor, the light gathered along his arms and shot down through the stage and into the bedrock beneath it. And a shock wave of golden energy rolled out away from the epicenter, leaving those touched with a sensation of warmth. The wave fell away after reaching the outskirts of the church’s influence, and people then looked back towards its origin, awed at the spectacle witnessed this day. Many also glanced skyward, pointing out the clear blue brilliance left shining down upon humanity. Some at the outskirts of the audience had fled to their homes and other shelters, but most had stayed, too overwhelmed to move from where they had begun watching.

            And the young man around whom the light had enshrouded seemed much diminished once it was gone. He stood there weakly, shoulders slumped, as if to further address those still paying attention. Then he swayed slightly and promptly toppled to the side. He rolled feebly onto his back and tried to sit up. And failed. He had never realized the illusion would be so fatiguing. He had thought it would require no energy of his own at all. His limbs were heavy, and his heart felt odd in his chest, minor palpitations sending intermittent waves of dizziness. But it had worked. It had worked! He could hear them already, crying out to their savior God. And to their new hero. The Prophet. Gerald Tarrant. He tried to smile, but found he had no concentration for much of anything at the moment. People were rushing towards him now, but he was beyond caring for them. The last thing Gerald saw before entering the unconscious realm was Karril’s face above his own, speaking words he could not hear. It seemed he was trying to tell him something about the spell of weakness. Something…he strained to comprehend…something…and then he passed out as Karril stood over him trying over and over to ask, “What is wrong with your heart?”    

           


	23. Reciprocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just have to say this was one of the more "fun" chapters to write. Tarrant gets a bit of his own medicine when Damien wakes up again...

**Reciprocity**

            Damien’s consciousness had been slowly lifting out of the sedative-like Working for hours now; though as of yet, he still remained within the dream-memories Tarrant had fashioned for him. The adept had figured to err on the side of caution when awakening him, nothing being considered too slow. He would need those initial minutes of sluggishness to talk Damien through this early phase of transformation. His hunger would be terrible by now. Near uncontrollable. Dangerous…very. And who knew what additional ‘modifications’ might have been wrought by the Forest? He shuddered inwardly at the thought, glancing again at the large man on the well-appointed mattress. Karril had left an hour prior, stating to call if he was needed, though Tarrant had no idea in what fashion the Iezu could be of assistance. And so he merely nodded. And patiently, he waited.

            A good while longer, once the shadows of evening had elongated to the point where most folk would require an additional light source, something changed. The Hunter’s eyes, long focused on a point above the headboard, flicked to the source of the perceived change, though it wasn’t visual yet. Cold. As he watched, the area around Damien became frosted and spread in a centrifugal fashion outwards. Its area of influence soon passed where Tarrant sat perched on the arm of a sofa chair, freezing the upholstery in place. He stood, turning, to watch the progression of the frosting, noting as he did that there were tiny crystals dangling from the elongated sleeves of his outer robe. He reached up and twisted one off with a small ‘shtick’ noise. His eyes narrowed in annoyance as he tossed it to the side and watched the play of ice spread over the wall-length windows, the crackling of ice formation very audible within the room’s stillness.

            He turned back to where he was facing Damien, as still and unalive as before. He shook his head in some dark amusement as he thought about how he himself should probably tone down the whole ‘freezing things’ crap. It was pretty annoying on the receiving end. Lost momentarily in his inner musings, he suddenly found himself looking into a pair of dark emerald eyes. He reacted in shock, quickly distancing himself from the oddly quiet man in front of him by utilizing supernatural speed to cross the room backwards. He stood there, now distanced by about 15 paces or so, assessing the stance of the man before him. Damien cocked his head to the side, as if studying Tarrant. His eyes glanced slowly downward, and then back up at the adept. And in perfect replication of Tarrant’s own swift retreat, Damien crossed the room to once more stand before the Hunter.

            “Fast learner,” Damien growled. And Tarrant quick-jumped to another position, and then another; each time he found Damien pacing him. This was worse than he had supposed. The sedative Working had either failed…or the subject himself had been awake for some time now and had just been waiting for it to wear off. Damn. Vryce really was smarter than he looked. And gazing into those now darkened eyes, changed eyes, the Hunter felt a twinge, just a little tiny bit, of fear creep into his heart. Was he stronger than Damien? Had Damien guessed at his new ability as an adept yet? He didn’t know, and so he attempted a mild approach, opening his mouth to speak.

            Crack! His head snapped to the side as Damien’s fist popped him lightning fast in the jaw. And Tarrant turned his head back to look in surprise, touching his face unconsciously, “Are you kidding me?!” he yelled, and he hit Damien square in the jaw with an upper cut that sent him over onto the bed, which collapsed inward and splintered all of the support structure. _So, he’s not **that** strong_ , thought Tarrant. But Damien hopped right back up…smiling. Not his usual jovial smile, but a sickly one. And he spoke, “Smug bastard. You think you know what’s best for everyone, don’t you?” But Tarrant, figuring it was a rhetorical question, chose not to answer.

             They stood sizing one another up for a moment and then crashed together in a flurry of motions too fast for the mortal eye to follow. Tarrant fought to prevent injury and buy time to speak, while Damien, it seemed, fought to win…whatever that meant. Tarrant was unsure if his life was in question or not. He attempted to talk his way out of this as he caught yet another powerful swing for his head and deflected it. “I know you’re angry, Vryce, but please listen. This is not you. This is the hunger created by this transformation. You need to feed, and soon.” He spun and kicked the ex-priest in the midriff, sending him a few feet back. “Listen to me. Violent emotions are always the first to surface when the hunger comes upon you. If you’ll just listen for a moment, you’ll see it’s true. Take control of yourself, man!” And he found himself propelled into the wall behind him, hitting with a loud thud and crack. _More broken masonry_ , he thought absently. And then ducked as another fist aimed for his head went flying by only to further damage the stone behind him.

            He dropped and rolled to the side, standing again to watch Damien looking at his hand and the wall, as if realizing for the first time just how strong he was. And then he turned back to the Hunter. “Feed? What the hell do you mean, Tarrant?” he asked as he ran over and attempted to grapple the adept. Tarrant, however, avoided his grasp entirely and thwacked him on the head with an elbow before saying, “You’ve changed, you idiot. Your very genetics. The Forest has altered your being to something similar to mine now. I could explain if you’d just listen!” he punctuated the last word with a kick towards the other man’s thigh. But Damien grabbed the extended leg and swung him into a bookcase, which promptly fell on top of him in protest.

            Damien came and threw the shelves off of him and picked him up by the back of his robes, as a kitten by the scruff of the neck. “Like you? Like you?!” he railed. “This is the sickest sort of thing you could have done to me, you bastard! You tell me I need to feed? How? Like you do?” He shook Tarrant violently. “NEVER!” And the ice coating the room’s contents shattered with that last word, glittering fragments spraying about everywhere. Several made small cuts along each of their bodies. And Tarrant noted with consternation the sudden attention his own blood was now getting from the other man. Damien watched as if ensnared as a slow crimson rivulet ran down over the Hunter’s left eye, leaving a tear-like trail in its wake. While the other was so concentrated, Tarrant slipped his outer robe and spun to face him once more.

            Damien dropped the robe and approached much more slowly this time, putting Tarrant off guard with the strange shift in pattern. Damien came right up to the adept, bumping him backward a few steps. Tarrant froze when he realized he had finally been backed into corner. Damien stood lightly against him, holding him in place, and reached up to that pale face. The cut itself had already healed from the ample available dark fae of the Forest, but the blood trail remained. And Damien touched it softly, bringing the finger then to his lips, where it paused. He looked Tarrant in the eyes as he licked the blood from his finger with agonizing slowness. And he closed his eyes, savoring the newly acquired flavor. They remained closed as he began to speak to the Hunter, sliding one hand up the adept’s chest and to his neck, where he then closed it in a steel grip.

           “And you would have me drain the life from innocents now, just because that is my new nature? Drink their lifeblood, so that I may live? And kill again.” The ex-priest breathed deeply; unnecessary, but still habit no doubt. “Tell me, Tarrant,” he said as his emerald-black eyes reopened and regained their ferocious contact with the Hunter’s own silver ones, “If I drink _yours_ …drain you completely…will it kill you? Will you die?” he finished the last with a whisper of emotion not unlike sexual hunger. He pressed himself further against the adept, almost smothering him with his much larger frame. Icy breath gusted across Tarrant’s neck as Damien’s mouth came within inches of skin. “I don’t know. Truly…I don’t,” the adept forced through his tightly gripped throat.

          And Damien gripped him more solidly and pushed, though with the wall behind him, there was nowhere for Tarrant to be pushed, and so it merely felt crushing. “Don’t fuck with me, Hunter! You did this to me! You _always_ wanted it this way. Well, how do you like it?!” He yelled as he plunged his other hand through Tarrant’s chest from under the ribs, causing quite a surprised gasp to erupt from the Hunter. With his healer’s hands, he easily located the position of where the Hunter’s blackened heart yet resided. His fingers closed over it. “A knife to the heart?” Damien whispered, “How about pure physical manipulation?” And he squeezed a bit, causing a panicked exhalation from Tarrant. Never had the Hunter foreseen this reaction. And what had been a tiny sliver of fear finally flared into the full knowledge that this man before him, this man he loved, could well destroy him.

            And Damien saw that realization enter those silver eyes as it happened. He smiled then, and withdrew his hand and stepped back, leaving Tarrant to collapse onto the carpeting. The adept coughed and sputtered, grasping the wound with both hands. He was then rolled from his side to his back by Damien’s foot, and stared up at him, watching the play of purplish fae flit along his warrior’s physique. The wound was healing, and Damien seemed to be waiting, so he lay there recovering for the time allowed.

            When finally he judged himself recuperated far enough, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Damien, I…” he tried before he found himself once again pressed against that wall. This time, the other man’s lips brushed his neck lightly before the now elongated canines burst through his diamondine flesh. He struggled at first, feeling the spiritual drain of the feeding, but Damien had caught him unprepared in everything today, and soon he sagged against the other. His thoughts becoming foggy and slow. And still the other continued to drink.

             And just as he felt about to pass into unconsciousness, Tarrant heard a familiar voice cry out, “Damien!  What the hell is going on in here?!” Karril appeared in the room and swept a visual barrier between the ex-priest and the adept as Damien released his hold and lifted his head to face the intruder. No longer able to see the adept, Damien’s eyes turned more curious at first, and then lightened. Truly, now that the hunger had been sated and he was removed from the act, he was more able to control his actions. And with this, comprehension returned, and his eyes shot fully open wide in horror as knowledge of his actions set in. He spun toward Tarrant but couldn’t see him due to Karril’s barrier. Frantically, he swatted at the barrier, crying out in shock at his actions; but Karril came over to him, saying, “Stop. Stop it. Calm, Damien.” And the Iezu waved a hand and removed the barrier from before him.

             Tarrant lay with eyes open, blood seeping from his throat, and blood also evident on his shirt where Damien’s hand had been. The bloody stripe down the left side of his face only served to accentuate how pale he was. Sprawled across the carpet like a doll, he seemed dead. But then, he always did, didn’t he? Damien hoped so as he hit his knees beside him, laying a hand on top of that chest wherein resided the heart he had actually held minutes ago. He drew it back as if stung at that thought, looking pleadingly at Karril to help. The last thing Tarrant saw as he fell into blackness was the Iezu crouching down to place a hand on his forehead and whispering, “Backfire,” into his ear. Then the world disappeared.

 


	24. Reprisal

**Reprisal**

            It took Karril a great while to calm Damien from the shock of violence he had committed…and almost committed. The demon also helped allay the ex-priest’s fears of Tarrant being in any mortal danger after a brief examination; and then they set to gathering him up and transferring him down to another suite. The one they had previously occupied had been, well, destroyed. The change in the ex-priest’s demeanor was complete. He took the utmost care with the Hunter, almost as if he were made of thin crystal. His distress was plainly evident to Karril, who was at a loss as to what to do or say. After all, where would one pull experience from when there had never been a situation like this before?

            For the fifteenth time, Karril watched as Damien checked the sheets and pillows surrounding Tarrant. He tweaked them, pushed a couple cushions up even further around the adept, and then ran his hand over the Hunter’s silken strands of brown-gold. And he sat, and stared, and sat, and stared. Karril had had enough of it. From what he had determined for himself, the Hunter would be fine, with time anyway. Perhaps a few days, and then he’d be up and as pissed off as ever. Distraction was needed in the time being, or else Damien would quite possibly smother the other man in pillows and linens. And wouldn’t that be a fine ending to the Neocount of Merentha? Of course, it’s hard to smother a being that doesn’t breathe, but Karril figured Tarrant _could_ possibly die of embarrassment maybe instead.

            “Damien,” the Iezu said lightly, drawing a blank and dejected stare from the ex-priest. “I know you’re concerned for him, but he really will be alright. And we’re doing no good just sitting here waiting for him to wake. In the meantime, why don’t I help you do something productive with your time? Hmm?” Damien’s gaze returned to the bed and its inhabitant without answering. Karril huffed, stood, and grabbed Damien’s arm, pulling him towards the door. “You’re an adept now; you have figured that out haven’t you? You need to learn some control over the fae you’re channeling, or else others could suffer from your slip ups. Understand?” he finished as they came into the hallway, and the Iezu had spun to ask him the final part face to face. Damien still met him blank-faced. “Do you understand me?” the demon repeated. And then an idea struck him and, speaking in a confiding tone, he said, “You might hurt him again if you don’t learn some control.”

            That got Damien’s immediate attention. His eyes became focused and worried. Karril smiled and began to walk away, “Yes, there you are now. Will you please follow me? I’d rather not have you practice near an unconscious life form; er, um, whatever he is.” But Karril noticed that no one was following him after a few steps. He turned to look back and found Damien still standing in the same place, but the anguish had returned to his face and his body was rigid. He spoke to Karril, haltingly, as if struggling with a concept himself, “You don’t understand. It’s not that I…hurt him. I didn’t JUST…hurt him… I…I betrayed him…  Don’t you see? Everyone else…in his past…has hurt him…hurt him badly. That’s why he never let anyone near him. They all…go away… They either die…or leave him…or hurt him…as I have…” Damien’s fists had balled up at the helplessness he felt. The muscles in his large frame were taut with tension that had no outlet. He did not cry; rather, he looked to Karril to be…angry…despondent...suicidal?...

            Karril approached him again, somewhat cautiously this time, and attempted to reason with him. “Yes, Damien, many people have hurt him during his long existence. No one else can tell you that with better knowledge than I.” The Iezu placed a hand on the ex-priest’s forearm in sympathy. “But I can tell you that no one…no one…has ever reached him on a level like you have.” He gave Damien a long look to convey the seriousness of his words before adding, “Not even Almea.” He let that line fade before continuing, “And this wasn’t entirely your fault, you know. Long ago, I witnessed Gerald’s transformation firsthand…the hunger and animalistic urges…” He shivered, a very un-demonlike thing to do. “And it is something that I believe he will be able to remember in order to forgive you your own stumbles.” Damien absorbed the words, and then nodded slowly, not seeming happy, but perhaps at least not on the brink of self-destruction any longer either. “Now then,” Karril clapped his hands together, “Let’s go learn some basic sorcery, shall we! And find some wine…well, for me I guess. I don’t know that you’ll find it at all…palatable any more.” Damien nodded absently, and they trundled down the hall together, Damien deep within his own thoughts. Tarrant lay behind them, still and unmoving as ever while he recovered…and waited. Patience.

OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~

            A few slow days later, as Tarrant surfaced from his deathlike slumber, he heard voices nearby. Out of focus at first, so that they sounded more like mumbling, but becoming rapidly understandable as he woke fully. “See, that’s it. Now keep it there. Hold it steady. Concentrate,” it sounded like Karril saying. A pause followed, then a response was given by another. “Are you sure this is right? I mean, I’m glad of the help and all, but this…it just doesn’t seem like it would have been within your realm of…expertise,” the voice, recognizable as Damien’s, finished lamely. Tarrant cracked an eyelid to peer at one of the strangest sights in his long existence. A sight he never thought he would see. Damien Vryce sat across from Karril. Or rather, he floated across from Karril, as they both sat on levitated stools. Damien’s hand was outstretched for the Iezu’s inspection. Tarrant strained to see and not be noticed. Within the ex-priest’s palm, tiny though it was yet, burned a flame that had no place in the realm of the living. Coldfire!

            Damien continued speaking, looking a bit peaked, “I don’t know how much longer I can hold all this stuff at the same time. It’s harder than I thought it would be. All of it is.” Karril smiled, “And how did you think it would go? Snap your fingers?” Damien looked sheepish and chagrined. “Well…he always made it look so easy. So effortless,” he said in answer, seeking to have the other understand his dilemma. Karril was about to continue to mercilessly torment Damien over his assumptions when a soft voice rang out from the bed, “Someone please kill me now if this is what I have to look forward to.”

            Concentration shattered, the chairs holding them aloft fell to the floor, followed by Damien and Karril. They sprawled there in confusion for a moment. The conjured flame had winked out of existence before any damage was done as well. They both lay there on the floor staring up at Tarrant, who had now propped himself up somewhat awkwardly so as to better address them from the edge of the bed. His hair hung in wild disarray, though with him it was artful even so. Skin shone paler than was his norm, but still, he was returned to them. “A world in which Vryce holds coldfire in his oafish hands is too dangerous for even one such as I,” the Hunter finished before flopping back into the pillows.  

            Karril remained where he was, wary at the Hunter’s return to consciousness. But Damien, with no concern for anything, threw himself toward the bed and landed on his knees at its side, hands out to clasp those of the man lying there so still. Still, and studying him intensely. But Damien did not take notice of the strange look in the Hunter’s eyes, he saw only that Tarrant was okay. And it meant all the world to him. He could barely even speak, so overcome with joy was he, “So, how…um, are you feeling?” Tarrant used a wisp of fae to arrange his hair and garments into their usual orderly fashion before replying, “Oh. I imagine I’ll be just fine,” and he glanced at Karril and back so quickly it may not have even happened, “in just a little while.” He finished with a smile that had frozen the blood of Erna’s forebears for a millennium. Dark and twisted, horrifying in what it could imply.

            Damien’s face reflected the sudden change as well; his smile retreated and was quickly followed by a curious look, which he then turned to Karril to see if the Iezu was as lost as he. What he saw was that Karril had fled to the edge of the suite and was actually off of the ground and perched in the upper far corner of the ceiling, a look on his face that Damien couldn’t decipher. As his head began its turn to face the Hunter again, Vryce found himself forcefully propelled into the wall beside the bed, where he then fell crashing to the floor. The air was blown out of him but no real damage done. And as he pushed himself into a seated position, he witnessed a truly beautiful and terrifying sight.

            From the bed, the Hunter was rising up into the air, slowly coming to an upright position. Dark fae pooled underneath him, supporting him as he verily levitated toward Damien’s position in a leisurely manner. The ex-priest’s eyes followed every nuance with his unfamiliar adept’s vision, mesmerized by the masterful play of the mist-like substance as it responded to the Hunter’s call. Tarrant’s progress halted within feet of Damien, and he looked down upon the other man with eyes black as liquid night. And from a face like that of a dark angel, the Hunter spoke, “Yes, Vryce. Let me show you something. There is something you need to learn.”

            Purple-black fae wrapped around Damien’s limbs and torso, lifting him up to eye level with the adept. The blackness displayed within those twin pools was completely unnerving, as if one could fall in and never find escape or know happiness again. The world reflected by them was a cold, skeletal thing with no hope. It drained his will to gaze into them. And the adept spoke again, “Yes. Let’s educate you, shall we?” Again that smile of winter’s death was aimed at him. But when he was suddenly slammed backwards into the bricks, he lost track of those thoughts.

            Tarrant stepped a bit closer, those eyes laying everything bare; the mind, heart, and soul of his prey was spread out before him. Damien felt the fae constrict around him, squeezing like a vice. He shut his eyes for a moment and tried to seize hold of a part of it for himself. Tiny wisps curled up from the ground at his call, attempting to reach out for his use. But even though Damien himself now was possessed of the powers of an adept, still the Hunter had been manipulating the fae for centuries before him. Tarrant gave an amused smirk, and he waved his hand through the pitiful wisps, dissipating them along with the ex-priest’s hopes of controlling them. Then he backhanded Vryce viciously, leaving a trail of blood to run down the larger man’s chin. It pattered to the floor in a macabre display of crimson artistry. His only response was to stare in surprised horror at Tarrant.

            The Hunter rose up higher in the air before him with the tide of dark fae. It flitted and swirled about him, gathering itself inward. Behind and around him, it bellowed outwards, as if the dark angel’s wings were spreading, readying for flight…or for the kill. Small sparks of coldfire ignited here and there along the adept’s robes, leaving shimmering, icy blue trails where they passed. The temperature had fallen so that even Damien’s unliving body could sense it now. All was quiet, as if the whole world held its breath at the actions within this keep. And then Damien was rammed into the wall again, chipping more stone. Tarrant gestured again, and the fae flung him across the space where he then broke through a table, chair, and a portrait. Afterward, Damien hung there on the wall, pinned by the fae enveloping him.

            He blinked, and then Tarrant was in front of him again, hovering with feet just off of the floor, but no less fae surrounding his lithe form. Damien felt his body begin to slide downwards from its elevated position against the masonry. His angle and height was adjusted down so that he was again eye to eye with what was still the most feared being on Erna. Tarrant studied Vryce’s face and then reached up towards it. Then, in perfect mockery of what Damien himself had done, the Hunter traced a finger through the ex-priest’s blood. He lifted the finger to his mouth and flicked a quick tongue out to taste it. And smiled.

            Tarrant leaned closer, right up to Damien’s ear, and whispered, “So, my priest. You want to play with ‘magic’ do you?” The adept chuckled darkly to himself, pulling back to again stare into Damien’s frightened visage. “It is difficult to master the fae. Much more so to master yourself or others. Let me demonstrate for you, boy, who the master is in this Forest.” And the tide of dark fae rose up and over Damien’s head, completely covering him before everything went black in his vision.

OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~

            He was floating. In water. Dark water. He could just barely make out shapes around him. He moved his arms through the liquid, turning himself and also noticing in the process that it was not water in which he was suspended, but blood. The thickness of it made his movements slower. And the shapes slowly came into sharper focus; they were bodies, thousands of them. They floated on top of and within the grotesque sea of fluid. No direction seemed to offer any immediate refuge, and so he simply remained where he was. He puzzled what this could signify, what Tarrant was trying to tell him, when something bumped his leg. _Huh_? He peered downwards but could make nothing out in the thick liquid. Again, this time a tug, woke a shock of adrenaline as he kicked out. But then his arms were seized from behind, and he went under. He flung himself sideways and thrashed free of the assailant, coming to the surface with gasps of air. He twisted as he heard something surface behind him. And found himself face to face with Senzei Reese. Eyes of purple mirrored glass reflected Damien’s own countenance back at him as the man smiled, revealing row upon repetitive row of tiny sharp teeth. Senzei grabbed for Damien again, just as something else pulled him all the way under and down, deeper still.

            His heart pounding, Damien returned to awareness standing in the middle of a village. And not a prosperous one at that. Daub and wattle housing with barely thatched roofs that undulated every time the hard wind blew. A storm was coming up. Damien looked side to side, seeing outlines of people hurrying to and fro. He called out to them, but they paid him no mind. There was a scream from the edge of the village, piercing the heart with its plaintive cry. It set Damien’s hairs on end and sent a tiny trickle of fear through his belly. What was all this? He heard steps approaching from behind, stealthy ones. He was being snuck up on. So he spun low down to his knee, swinging an arm out to catch the attacker by surprise…and choked when he saw his hand vanish inside of the chest of a small, familiar boy. Gerald! The boy made gasping motions but could pass no air and soon slumped over with Damien’s hand still inside him. He could not seem to make it obey him and pull back. Then, to Damien’s growing horror, he felt his own hand inside of the boy grasp the heart and start to squeeze. “No!” he cried out in vain as his hand crushed the boy’s heart. Blood flowed over his forearm in gouts as he was finally able to remove it from the small body. He was going to be sick. He closed his eyes as the nausea rolled over him.

            And opened them to a field of dull gray. He stood there for a minute, spinning about to get his bearings. The boy and village were no longer there, but the blood remained upon his hand and arm. A flicker off to the side. He thought he saw something in the distance, something coming closer, and at great speed. It was a city. It was as if he were sliding along the ground toward it; or was it sliding to him? Disorienting. Then he saw it was burning. Jaggonath. But why? When finally the city was on top of his location, he ended up standing before the great doors of the cathedral. They hung askew, as if some large hand had rent them from their hinges. The city burned, but so far, the cathedral seemed to have been untouched by the flames.

            There were bodies all about the floor inside. The flames from without caused shadows to dance across their faces, making them seem half-animate. No violence seemed to have been done to them. They all simply lay with eyes wide and unseeing. But as he stepped into the church’s influence, between the pews, all of those dead eyes snapped to his position. Nothing moved after that, but the eyes all followed him as he approached the alter. And another person lay across the alter, but this one, he noticed as he came closer, was still alive. And he knew her. A person he had never met…at least not while she was alive. Almea Tarrant lay across the cold stone in whimpering horror. Her dark auburn hair glowing red in fiery light from outside. She was naked and bound hand and foot, her body trembling violently but otherwise unharmed. She spoke not a word, but stared at him in terror.

            “It’s okay; my name is Damien. Don’t worry; I’ll get you down from here,” he said, attempting to calm her as he quickly approached. But as he came forth, he began to feel control slipping from him. _What the…_?  “No!” he yelled as that dark presence took over again. He watched as he stood at one end of the alter, and Almea’s skin began to peel back across her chest. Blood ran down to the stone floor as this continued, eventually revealing the rib cage and interlacing musculature. He couldn’t move on his own, but he watched as his hand came forth and gestured intricately in the air, causing her flesh to slice across the abdomen. She screamed even louder then, mindless in her pain, throwing her head back and hidden from his view. He felt lightheaded and nauseated again.

            As her scream ended, she lifted her head once again to look pleadingly in his direction. But it was not Almea’s face this time. “Ciani!” he cried out before he could stop himself. And then he felt his mouth twitch up in a smile as she squirmed upon the stone. He stepped closer and lay his hand across her convulsing torso. She tried feebly to pull away from him, but her bonds were too tight. He closed his hand over her and then flung all fingers outward in one quick movement. Instantly, she froze, held in place by his power. He slid the hand up her bleeding abdomen and into the slice thereon, feeling the intestines slip through his fingers. The smile deepened, and he removed his hand.

            He trailed the now bloody hand up across her exposed ribs, fingers catching under the fifth intercostal on the left side. He paused, looking down into her eyes. Then he broke through the ribs and closed his finger around the frantically beating heart. He felt it thrum within his grasp, hot and wet. One quick tug, and it came free, tearing lose from the supporting vessels. Her eyes went blank, glassy. And one last breath left her mouth as she slumped down upon the stone. He studied the heart in his hand a moment, drip-dripping onto the floor, and the world slowly began to dim. His last thought before the darkness closed in, was the realization that, right there at the end, the nausea had gone away. It had been replaced. And in its place…in its place…hunger…

OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~

            Tarrant looked over at Karril, who had approached a bit since the dream torture of Damien had begun. The Iezu saw through Tarrant’s mind what was being done to the ex-priest, and he shuddered inwardly. “That last one was a pretty nasty piece of work, Gerald,” he said softly, and then continued, “You think he’s had enough now? I mean, you didn’t see how upset he was. You know. For what he did…to you.”  Tarrant’s fae enshrouded form lowered to the ground slowly, ice forming in the area immediately surrounding where he touched down. He turned to face Karril, Damien still held against the stone wall, trapped within nightmares.

            “What is ever enough? Tell me. What?” he asked in low anger. “You know he couldn’t help it, Gerald. He was already angry when you sedated him. And then you left him under so long that the hunger took over. You remember what it was like, don’t you?” the demon persisted, looking him in the face now, “Because I do. I remember what you did. What you were.” He held his ground before the Hunter, hoping he was reaching him. And Tarrant stared back, considering. “Yes. I…suppose,” the adept finally conceded. He looked back at Damien, who was shivering from the next of a series of mental tortures. Frowning towards the ex-priest, Tarrant let him drop to the ground. Karril glanced at the adept once, as if to see if he was lying, and then ran to Damien’s side to roll him over. The facial laceration had already healed, but the man remained unconscious. Tarrant spoke as the demon took this in, “Put him the East wing. He will dream some further yet.” And at a sharp glance from Karril, he amended it to, “He will have further dream-memories while he recovers.”

            Tarrant left them then. He headed to the observatory as the last light of day faded across the tree tops. And gazing out from the keep, he watched the Forest watch him. His Forest. His. As it would always be. He stood there for hours in deep contemplation before finally heading back inside. His last thoughts dwelt upon which memory to end Damien’s education of his past with. Which dream-memory would be the last? Not yet, but soon. Glancing around at the surroundings as he thought of this, he found his answer. The memories would end here, as his first life had; with the vow he had made to himself all those years ago, just after he had first transformed into his current state. Yes. Let him see just how much he has affected me. Perhaps that will help him value our situation all the more. And he descended into the darkness of the keep.

 


	25. Fragments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I must apologize to all of you who have read my entire fic before this date of 1/13/14. I discovered a massive error on my part that I'm still feeling quite stupid over. Apparently, I had been saying that Tarrant's father, Harrod, was a Neocount. But we all know very well that in the novels, Tarrant states that he is the first and ONLY Neocount of Merentha. So dammit, I realized that as I wrote this chapter, and I have gone back through and changed my previous chapters to read as his father being a Baron, which would be a lower rank than a Neocount. Sheesh. Honestly, I'm surprised no one else had caught it yet and called me out on it. LOL! At any rate, I have fixed that crappy error, and the fic is now hopefully without gross flaws such as that. Please, if you see any others, message me so I can change them! ;)

**Fragments**

Damien dreams:

            When first Gerald’s eyes slid open, they were met by a pair of brilliant green ones framed by a fair skinned, delicately feminine face. “Oh!” the owner of the face exclaimed. “You’re awake at last!” And as the owner backed away from him somewhat, he was able to gain a better perspective of her, propped as he was against a background of pillows. Fiery copper hair tumbled in waves just past slender set shoulders. A physique that was not quite skinny but definitely nowhere near plump, perhaps simply slender, was grazed by light pink silk in the progressive folds of a dress on which ink spots could be seen in random patterns. She sat back in the small armchair beside his bed with a book in hand, a notebook on her lap, and quill rolling about between both of them. Pretty, in a distracted sort of way, as if she didn’t much bother with her looks, though her natural ones were sufficient enough to cause the casual turn of a male head.

            He took in his surroundings quickly. White washed walls, smallish room with sparse furniture, bed with railings to either side: a hospital. Then he stared at her in confused silence with a questioning expression until she spoke again. “Oh, well, I suppose you don’t know what happened, do you?” she began, blushing a bit, and then continued, “You collapsed at the end of your presentation at the church. No one knew what to think at first, but you were so still. I knew there was something dangerously wrong,” she said as she twisted a lock of flame-like hair around a finger over and over. “I was the first one over to you, and I checked your pulse. There wasn’t much of one to speak of, so I performed cardio resuscitation immediately.” She looked thoughtful for a moment before saying, as if to herself, “I’ll never be more glad that father allowed me to attend those courses.” Looking back at him, she smiled at her own diversion from the topic, “But you must have only been in some kind of atypical heart rhythm because I only had to do a few cycles before your heart regained its own rhythm again,” she paused here as if shy, “Um, sorry by the way…about your ribs...” she trailed off.

            Gerald glanced down at himself and realized he had some kind of binding wrapped around his torso. And upon breathing deeply, he grimaced, to which she replied, “Yes, two of them at least. Though I’ve told them they shouldn’t bind you like that. You’re more likely to get pneumonia or a collapsed lung from binding broken ribs.” She sighed, “But who wants to listen to a woman?” She arranged her skirts before standing. “I suppose they’ll all want to know that you’re awake now. I’ll just go tell the physician so he can come examine you himself.” And she turned and then walked toward the door with Gerald realizing he hadn’t said a single word to her the entire time. He called out, almost breathlessly, “Thank you,” but she heard nonetheless. Turning to face him before she left the room, she smiled, and then walked out, leaving him utterly confused and strangely buoyant.

            The rest of the day passed slowly, with the physician coming to speak with him shortly after her departure about events that transpired with his collapse. As many diagnostics as they possessed had been run on him, but there was little of the resultant information that he enjoyed hearing. Apparently, a congenital anomaly of a specific valve within his heart was creating heart failure-like symptoms and arrhythmias. Presumably, this condition was finally brought to light as a result of the enormous stress of his speech and the Divine response thereafter. This valvular defect was determined to be controllable by medication and close monitoring, but there was a chance it would worsen as he aged. Stress and low natural body reserves had probably exacerbated the hidden defect to this point, so he should do well with the prescribed treatments. That was what the thinking was anyway. And so, once the physician left, Gerald had nothing but lonely hours to ponder the conversation and dwell on his own mortality. As with the majority of young folk, invincibility is their perception; and his perception had been shattered.

            It wasn’t until evening that the king came to visit. He swept in unceremoniously and sat beside him, looking into his face as if to confirm for himself that the young man was, indeed, fine. Then he smiled, “I’d have been here sooner, but court drew out long this afternoon. I did pause it, though, to take news of your recovery,” he smiled more widely at this, “You should’ve seen some of the faces those pompous asses made when I left for a while to hear of it.” He took a deep breath, and the smile faded. “I didn’t know what to think, Gerald. At first, I thought it was all part of the show, you know? But then that woman ran up to you and began yelling for help… I was so scared for you. Has this happened before? I spoke with the physician already, but I just can’t wrap my head around it.” Gerald was moved by the man’s concern, but he downplayed the whole episode, claiming he was overcome by the fae he was weaving for the massive illusion. For now, he did not want to speak of this episode he had had until there was more time to investigate it for himself. _Never show others your weakness_ , he reminded himself. And so he moved the conversation into a more desired heading: his illusory display before the crowd.  For now, that was all that he was truly concerned with.

            Richard was bursting with news on this subject and went on and on concerning the effects on the local populace. “Not a single demonling or apparition within the grounds in the three days since you’ve been here. It’s amazing! The people are pouring in to read the transcriptions of your speech. It’s wonderful. Just what we wanted. I’ll grant you, though, I had thought it a horrible gamble since it required so many of those present to hold tightly enough to belief in your proclamation to engender it into the fae, but…it worked. It worked!” Richard exclaimed repeatedly, and it gave Gerald a simple satisfaction to know that he had so influenced the man’s feelings. “Oh, and Gerald, I made the declaration of your being the Prophet of the Law.” This gained an odd look from the young adept. “Well, I tacked that law bit on to the end as a last minute thing. It just seemed appropriate since you’ll be dictating church law and beliefs.” Gerald sighed and nodded that he was agreeable, if annoyed, with the title. At least, he thought he was annoyed until the king added, “And I also knighted you as the Knight Premier of the Order of the Flame. It includes all the pertinent patents and things. Makes you a Neocount, so you’ll have some authority outside of the church as well. The first one of Merentha, I believe…” He let Gannon carry on with praises for a short while longer, swallowing the annoyance at needing a titled name, as it seemed the other had been keeping emotions pent up since there was no one else he could discuss them with. Then a thought occurred to him, and he interrupted the king’s gleeful expressions.

            “Who was that girl?” he asked as he resettled in the bedding. Richard’s face tilted toward him questioningly, so he clarified. “She was here earlier today. Red hair, fair…talkative.” And the king’s face lit with recognition. “Oh! Your savior, you mean? Yes, she came right out of her seat when you fell and did some marvelous things to help bring you back to us. I had never heard of such things, so I inquired later. Apparently, those techniques are only now gaining favor among the medically employed. They are a throw-back to old earth sciences, I believe they said,” he finished thoughtfully. Gerald stared expectantly for minute before prompting, “Her name?” Richard came back to the moment immediately, “Oh, sorry. That was Almea Lendrick, daughter of my treasurer. About three years your senior, I believe. Odd girl really, but very sweet. Attended the Finistrad University, although she deviated from what was originally approved as appropriate study for young ladies.” He sighed in mock sympathy. “Her father never could refuse her anything, though, and so when she began to change her curriculum, well, he didn’t…” the king said with a shrug. “But lucky for you that she followed her _own_ curriculum, eh?”

            Gerald absorbed all of this silently in thought. The king added, “She kept an eye on you every day since you’ve been out. Very fussy about the medical care you were receiving.” Silence extended between them for a moment before Gerald asked, “You think she’ll be back? I mean, since I’m awake now?” And Gannon smiled in what could almost be described as sadly at him, “She is very pretty, isn’t she?” Gerald attempted a confused look, saying, “I suppose…but I merely wish to more appropriately thank her for her interventions. It seems I owe her a debt.” The king looked at him knowingly, his blue eyes at once happy, yet pained, “Yes, I suppose you do.”

OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~

            Damien awoke feeling strange. He remembered fighting, brutally, and he knew he had suffered nightmares of the worst sort. And those were equally as painful as the physical beating to be sure. But as he took stock of his senses and patted himself down, he realized he must have healed already. _May as well be some benefit to being undead I guess_ , he thought to himself.

No one appeared to be present for his awakening, so he threw the sheets off of himself and pushed up and out of the bed. Standing there in the silence, he reached out one hand to the bedpost next to him. With barely a whisper of thought, ice crystals began forming down along its length. He smirked a bit at seeing this, and then shook his head before leaving the room to find Tarrant. He was unsure as of yet what he would say, but his anger had dissipated, and he knew that not everything was entirely the adept’s fault. _Deep breaths_ …

            It took little time to locate the other man, as their bond still allowed for directional sensation. The Hunter stood alone in the courtyard near a rose bush, examining the leaves and blossoms individually. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, so everything remained bathed in soft predawn light. He turned as Damien approached, which caused the big man to slow in caution, and then stop altogether. They stared across the ten paces for moments that felt an eternity to the ex-priest. Then Tarrant gave an almost smile and turned back to the plant, saying, “I trust you will behave yourself now, Vryce? No further embarrassing thrashings will be necessary?” Damien frowned at the adept’s back. “I seem to remember being the first to actually give a thrashing, Tarrant,” he said in a mock-haughty voice.

            Without even turning, Tarrant swept a hand across to the side, and Damien suddenly found himself wrapped in prickly thornbushes full of roses. The thorns penetrated and drew blood in dozens of places. He twisted once, then decided he would only lose more blood that way as the thorns dug deeper. And trying to grasp at the fae resulted in only a muted response at best. Sighing, he said, “Point taken, Hunter.” And the bushes were suddenly gone, and he was left trying to catch himself before falling, arms windmilling about. Once righted, he walked to Tarrant’s side with an expression of long suffering, “Okay, so I get your drift. But this is a problem I’m going to need your help with.” He glanced around, seeing a couple of the new keep employees crossing through the gates and felt something tighten inside of him. His body reacted to their living presence like a surge of adrenalin. He could already taste their blood and fear as it ran out of their weakly struggling bodies…he shuddered, looking back at Tarrant. “A big problem.”

            Tarrant leaned forward to pluck one of the less desirable blooms and then burned it away with a flash of coldfire. “Yes, we will speak of that tonight. But you still have a few days yet before the hunger will become uncontrollable again.” He looked to the side and gestured toward a far end of the keep. “In the meantime, I have other things that need attending to since my absence and Amoril’s destruction let the buildings and grounds fall into disrepair. Why don’t you go do something productive? Meditate? Thrash about with your sword? Practice your use of the fae in the marshalling yard?” And then he looked back at Damien, “Or anywhere else _not_ in my presence,” he added icily.

            The ex-priest took the hint, figuring that the adept was still not quite comfortable with his newly developing powers. And so he spun to leave, but stopped. He turned back and asked suddenly, “Did you love her?” And all that could be silenced in the world held its breath as the time stretched out after this question was uttered. Not even a breeze moved the air around them. The sun seemed stuck in its position below the horizon. Tarrant stood facing the rose bush still, his shoulders tensed. “What are you talking about?” Damien stepped forward a bit, “You know what I’m asking. Almea…I saw her…in the dream-memory. Did you love her?”

            Tarrant’s shoulders released part of their tension, but he still seemed on guard, and he still did not turn to face Damien as he replied in an unfamiliar tone, “She was very interesting to me. Educated, warm, charitable…she never let anything bother her. Other people’s opinions were just that: opinions. She studied some of the medicinal arts from the University as a curiosity, though she certainly had the ability to succeed at it fully if she had so desired. She had a beauty that was not of the kind that bards would go on about, but had a natural flow to her. Her spirit shown through her body of flesh, and it glowed brightly to all who met her. An ideal partner for a young Prophet, newly made Neocount, and Founder of the Church of the One God. She didn’t possess the same brilliance with which I could apply to science, but she was able to converse intelligently with me about it. And yes, she was a devoted wife and an excellent mother. Rather than using her brain, she followed her heart in all things, figuring that was where the truth lay in every aspect of life. And that is, in the end, what killed her.”

            Silence reigned again. Damien had not expected such a lengthy reply, but that still had sidestepped his question. “Gerald,” he said softly, “did you love her?” No sooner had the repeated question left his lips than he was suddenly surrounded by a blue-black wall of coldfire. It swirled around him on all sides, leaving no avenue for escape. He stared in surprise at first and then yelled through it to the other man; but there was no response. It was only perhaps a minute in existence before it burned out, though, leaving him gazing into the rising sun. He observed that he was now alone in the courtyard. The rosebushes stood unattended. He started to turn towards the marshalling yard when something at his feet caught his eye. He bent down to examine a single rose that had sprung up through the cobbles, perfectly preserved in a prison of ice. Its petals were of the most deep, blood red and seemed to remain silky soft within their frozen confines. It sparkled beautifully in the growing light of dawn. He reached out to touch it softly, and it shattered into a million glittering fragments.

 


	26. Foreboding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I just wanted to note that, due to lack of any real feedback and whatnot, I have compressed about 4 separate chapters' worth of info into this single tiny one. I just sort of find it difficult to get up the enthusiasm to put such work into something that obviously had such little appeal. Now, I know that a few friends (hobgoblin, herdcat, et al) do actually read this and are interested. But, I have recently begun writing my own fantasy novel, and I find it wearing on my time and patience to expend effort on this instead of my own work. Much as I love Gerald Tarrant and Damien Vryce, I simply can't move to the applause of one hand clapping forever. LOL! Anyway, that is not to say that I am going to let (what little) quality suffer. I am just going to shorten some of this tale by compressing information into blips instead of chapters. Hence, I was going to have a chapter or two of Tarrant and Almea getting to know one another, even though I am not particularly keen on it myself. However, I gloss over it so as to save my strength for the few scenes I have left that I am still truly impassioned about. So, don't worry, I will finish this. It just won't be quite as long as I had originally thought. Thanks to my 3 readers!

**Foreboding**

            More than a little shaken from his interaction with Tarrant, Damien retreated to a quiet portion of another, smaller courtyard. This one was walled off from the rest of the area and had many flowering plants that had grown wild quite rapidly during the period of being untended while Amoril held control. He found a large stone bench and took up a meditative position, desiring to delve deeper into the mystery of Almea Tarrant. He relaxed his mind ever so slowly, inviting the dream memories to invade his consciousness. He hoped from the memories Tarrant allowed him to partake of that he would be able to discover the thing that had always bothered him, especially since Tarrant himself seemed disinclined to discuss it.

            Undoubtedly, in this day and time, Gerald Tarrant was more monster than man, notwithstanding the incredible influence Damien had had on him. But somewhere in the past, there flickered a flame that was pure. His people had respected him, his wife and children loved him…but…did he love _them_? Damien had wondered this very same thing for a little over a year now. It had occurred to him one day while traveling with the Hunter. Once, he was but a mortal man, no Contract or evil within his soul but what normally dwelt within the hearts of men. Right? Up to now, the memories shared had shown Damien horrors he would never have inflicted on his worst enemy, even though it was, ironically, his worst enemy whom these things had happened to. But though these occurrences had certainly twisted the young Tarrant’s perceptions of the world, they had not left the darkness that Damien sought after. _So what did it? What changed him?_ he asked himself as he fell softly into the next series of dream memories.

~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO~~~~~~~~~~OOOOOOOOOO

            Gerald and Richard sat across from one another at dinner. It was what passed as an intimate setting for a king. Only four guards, two serving men, and Gerald in the room with him. They sat at a small round table that was placed before an excellent view of the city in the highest eastern tower of the palace. It had been almost a year since the “miracle,” and they had made such progress! Gerald had finished his book of church law, and believers from all over flocked to them. He spoke at different church locations across the land, spreading his newfound gospel, gathering more to the fold, and bringing with it safety from the fae. Churches who took his words to heart and followed the Law as he had written it found themselves safe from demonlings and other fae apparitions. It was as great a start as any they could have hoped for. But, though the success had been celebrated by them both, Gannon suspected that a darkness still resided within his younger friend that would never fully relinquish its hold. Still, the attentions of that woman had done much for him. At least he left his laboratory and library almost daily now. The paleness of Gerald’s skin had become worrisome.

            Richard swirled the wine in his glass, “Seen much of Almea lately?” he asked slyly. Though it pained him that Gerald had rejected his own pursuit almost a year past, he was genuinely happy that his friend was finally learning to care for another. Gerald replied softly, “Yes; much.” And then he put down his fork and leaned onto the table, his expression solemn. “What do you think of me asking her to marry?” Richard almost choked on his wine when he heard this. “Marry?! Truly?” He stood and came quickly to Gerald’s side, and upon seeing his nod of confirmation, he said, “There is nothing that could make me happier! When will you ask? Or have you already?” Gerald replied, looking down at his hands, “I’ve just been thinking about it is all. She makes me feel…different. Unashamed of who I am.” His gray eyes met Richard’s as he said, “She makes me want to be better than I am. For her.” 

            “She’s really gotten you now, hasn’t she?” Richard grinned. He hadn’t realized the young man was this far into it. Gerald continued, “She’s smart, Richard. So intelligent. And fiery. Though she acts demure in polite company, she’s got a bold sense of humor. I’m just worried that…” The young adept seemed to be searching for words. Richard looked confused as Gerald trailed off, asking, “Worried? Why should you be worried?” Gerald sighed and fell against the back of his chair. “You’ve heard what the elders of the church are starting to whisper, Richard. Don’t pretend otherwise. They never did like us stealing one over on them that day, and though they benefitted from it, still it burns them. And they now believe to start eliminating sorcery from the church? Eliminate sorcery…and me with it. They want control back. They think I can’t see past their word games.” Richard pulled his chair over next to the young adept.

            “Gerald, I know these rumors worry you, but they know _my_ will on this. _Your_ word is the one that counts.” Gerald sighed again, saying, “Yes, but they can make it difficult for those who do not have a crown to protect them.” Ah, so he was worried Almea might be intimidated, Richard surmised. “Gerald, if she is as you describe, then I think you worry for no reason. She is of sound mind and able to think for herself. I doubt she will be bothered by rumors. And the church will never succeed in unseating you as long as I’m here. So cheer up, ask the girl to marry you, and have a bit of joy in life. You’ve had little enough as it is” And Gerald smiled and agreed to think on it.

            Gannon changed the topic, “So what do think of my campaign into those outlying lands? Will you be there for me?” he asked half in jest. “You know I will, Richard. The more people under your influence and kingdom, the better chance we have of converting them to the church and defeating the fae’s grip on mankind. I only worry since you plan on leading the knights personally.” The king laughed, “Bah. They will provide no resistance once they feel our first charge. Those nomad tribes of men who consort with the fae to increase its influence are no match for our knights. We will be merciful, though. As soon as they show signs of faltering, we will parlay with them. I only wish there were a more peaceable way to do this. But they have rejected all of our previous overtures. Violently, I must add. The way they worship the fae and envelop themselves in it has changed them.” Gerald nodded at this explanation as the king continued, “Their influence on the fae causes no end of death along our borders. The creatures created by them steal into our cities. And though I know they aren’t _willing_ the fae-lings to kill our people, still these people produce five times as many fae creatures as ours. They simply must be stopped. I hate to attack a people simply for their own beliefs, but when _their_ beliefs cause harm to others, I draw the line. Their way of worshipping the fae has brought too much destruction to our people to be overlooked.”

            “But enough of this talk of war. We should be talking of your wedding. There’s never been a man who is the Neocount of Merentha, Prophet of the Law, and Knight Premier altogether! Your ceremony will have to be special, different, hmmmm…” Gerald listened as his friend went on thinking aloud of various themes and such that could make his wedding a fantastical experience. Truly, he cared nothing for ceremony himself, but it made his friend happy to think he did. And Gannon _was_ his friend. He loved him as a brother; or at least, he loved him as he imagined one was _supposed_ to love one’s brother, as he himself had no experience here, despite his many siblings. The king was one of two souls in all the world within whose company he felt at ease. And he found himself unsettled when he contemplated them suffering any ill because of himself. He had a vague sense of unease twisting into his belly while his friend spoke, as if something inevitable were coming and all he could do was wait, and watch. He shook it off as he tried to feign enthusiasm over color choices and performers. He smiled again at his friend. Richard and Almea were all that Gerald had in the world.  And the One God help any who ever threatened them…

                                                                                                                                      

 


End file.
